


Fear of tomorrow

by issa



Series: Fear of Tomorrow [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 38,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issa/pseuds/issa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a simple mission. To be honest the mission was completed. There was no reason for anyone to attack them. However someone had a different opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, my first fanfic ever. And English is not my mother tongue. So please forgive me any mistakes.

D'Artagnan

  
The sensation of cold woke him. He pull out a hand to reach a blanket or rather he tried to as pain exploded in his side and made him to still. To focus solely on breathing through the pain as he was taught. Too many times in his short life that lesson was repeated. When the fire in his side subsided to a dull throbbing he opened his eyes.

Leaves. Red and brown and gold leaves were what he saw. He did not remember how he got there. Carefully he moved his head. There was fog above him and nearly inscrutable tree branches. His memory slowly started to return.

_There was a foggy afternoon. There was a mission. It was not a solitary mission._

Where were his brothers?! D’Artagnan fought the urge to get up quickly as it might lead to loss of consciousness. Instead he lifted himself a little on his elbows. He took his whereabouts. A misty forest. A steep slope. There was something with this slope. He began to be quite sure that he fell from it. He could even distinguish the traces of his fall left in wet leaves and mud. But still he had no idea which events had led to it.

_There had been a mission. The mission had been successfully completed. Musketeers were returning to Paris in good moods especially that Comte D’Abrun to whom they delivered message had invited them to spend night in his estate. Soft clean beds, warm rooms, tasty breakfast… Just little pleasures._

So distant now and unimportant.

_They had nothing valuable on them so nobody should have had any reason to attack them. The Comte even did not give them any answer. And no sane bandit would attack musketeers. The ambush took them by surprised._  
  
 _'Porthos!'- Athos shouted with anguish. The shout followed by a shot. D'Artagnan glanced at the direction where Porthos was fighting with three men only to see one of them holding a pistol. The scene played before his eyes like in slow motion. Porthos stumbled and went down, blood trickling down his face. This glance cost younger musketeer dearly as one of his opponent managed to past through his defense. He felt the sting of the blade followed by warm wetness._  
  
So why was he there, in that forest? ALONE. Only now, with his memories, he was able to register the pain of the wound in his arm. He did not remember when or how he received the injury causing fire in his side. It had in common something with the horse, with the struggling on the horse... His memories were as foggy as that cold afternoon. Maybe evening?

_The furious ride. Sound of hooves. Angry shouts. And the shot. The flare of pain._

So it was a shot wound. Bad.

D’Artagnan assessed the distance to the nearest tree. He begun to move tediously towards it. It took ages but finally he managed to sit supported by the trunk. He draw a dagger from his boot… Why he did not have his sword?! He looked around frantically by nowhere saw his weapon.

One step at time – he reminded grimly and took a part of his shirt. After several minutes of fighting against pain, he managed to bind the wound as tightly as it was possible for him. He must have fainted sometime during that operation as when he became aware of surroundings he felt a warm breath on his face. His sweated hair were gently nibbled. He opened his eyes. It took time to focus his sight enough to look into beautiful brown eyes of his mare. She sniffed and anxiously touched his cheek with her black wet nose.  
'My girl... '- D’Artagnan mumbled  
She was his salvation if only he had enough strength to mount her. First two trials finished with young musketeer lying semi-conscious near hooves of his horse. D’Artagnan did not really remember how he managed to reach her back. He knew only that he heavily leaned to her neck barely able to breathe from exhaustion and pain. When finally he opened his eyes he had the impression that it was darkening. He knew that the night in the cold without the wound properly tended to might be his last. He could not give in not knowing the fate of his brothers.

D’Artagnan made his horse to move, without really picking any direction. Maybe his smart mare wound find the way to her comrades, to his friends. All the young musketeer could do was not to fall from her back. Too late he thought about his saddlebags and some medical kit there. For now they were as good as non-existent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not only d'Artagnan is injured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support and interest. This is a part of answer about d'Artagnan's brother. Hope, you will enjoy :)

Aramis

  
Pain. Pain was the first thing which returned along with the consciousness. With each beat of his heart he had an impression that his head may just explode. Maybe this was the reason for which he was pretty sure that his  heart was beating too fast.  Breathing was also somehow challenging. He dared only to take very shallow breaths. He could foresee the agony lurking for any deeper breath. He felt a sweet taste of blood in his mouth. It made the nausea building.

He was fighting the urge to vomit but in vain. He moaned when he succumbed to heaves which made only more blood to come up. His stomach must have already emptied. Aramis hovered on the edge of blackness, but did not really wanted to avoid it. However there was no expected relief when the pain engulfed him.

Aramis did not know how much time passed when finally he became aware of lying on something hard and cold. He leaned with his forehead to the coolness, searching for any reprieve from agony consuming him. However the cold seeping in him started to provoke tremors which only intensified pounding in his head. He still felt the taste of fresh blood and he could not find with his tongue any wound on his lips. In that situation the fact that his hands were bound tightly on his back seemed to have a lesser importance.

He could only hope that his friends were safe. He must have been taken down in the very beginning of the fight.

_Aramis was riding at the end of their group. The narrow road did not allowed them to ride side to side as they usually preferred. The musketeers missed the possibility of chatting. It was boring to silently travel in this white milk. Aramis drown in his thoughts. Only D’Artagnan shout ‘ambush’ awoke him. The thick fog made difficult to assess the number of enemies. Aramis had to duel with two bandits. They were quite skilled with sword. Too skilled for his liking. They demanded all his concentration. He never heard the third opponent._

Aramis forced his eyes to open. Fortunately there was quite dark, the only light went through a little window in stony wall. A really old window. A church window, he realized shocked.

‘So you' re awake’- a man kneeled beside him and touch his lips with a cup. - Drink. You need it'  
Probably he was right but Aramis did not want to risk his stomach rebel. It was too painful and too humiliating.  
The man took the cup away. He stood up.  
'Who are you?'- Aramis croaked. He did not like the sound of his usually charming voice.  
The man only shrugged. He was taller than Aramis with blond short hair and a nasty scar on his check. Aramis medical knowledge told him immediately that the scar had been left by cauterization of an infected cut wound. Just a stupid information provided by injured brain. Unimportant. Valueless.

'What do you want from me?'- Aramis tried again.  
'I? Nothing. You should wait for your answers'- he said –However I guess, you won't like them. Rest while you can.' - there was no cruelty in his captor voice only some kind of fatigue.

  
Aramis wondered for a moment whether it was wise to indicate that his time might be running out but such a long sentence required a deeper breath. The musketeer decided it was not worth it. Probably he would not gain anything. Pain made him considered every spoken word, so he remained silent. The world started to get foggy on the edges, time counted by painful throbbing in his head.   
  
A sound demanded from Aramis to pay attention. The sound of hooves. He nearly stopped breathing,  hoping to hear the clang of swords, gunshots, familiar shouts, his name called by his friends. But there was no fight outside. Only a conversation. He recognized the voice of the blond. Aramis did not hear his question. But he heard the answer. And he forgot how to breath. One of his brothers was dead. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could he leave Porthos? How could he leave Aramis and D'Artagnan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still I do not own them.  
> Thank you all for reviews and kudos :)

Athos

  
The nice, although somewhat boring, ride instantly became a hard fight for survival. The musketeers had no idea of the opponents number. Athos parried, dodged, and definitely too rarely manage to lunge an attack. However he really hard tried not to get hurt he already felt the stings of blades. It was impossible to avoid scratches while dueling with five bandits. He believed there were only scratches.

Athos killed another bandit and it the short second of reprieve he risked a glance towards his friends. He hardly saw the lean silhouette of d'Artagnan engaged fiercely in dueling. Aramis was invisible and Athos hoped that the fog combined with the distance between them was the reason for it. The older musketeer caught a glimpse of Porthos and his heart froze although his body continued to parry. 'Porthos!!! - he yelled in the same moment as the gunshot rang. The bigger musketeer was falling in a splash of blood. The bullet must have hit his head.

Athos screamed in despair while making his way to Porthos. Or rather trying to get there as his friends’ opponents now faced him, his rage, his despair. Athos could not say how long it took him to kill his enemies. Kill or severely wounded. He did not care for the moment. However he heard an order to retreat and two still alive of his foes quickly disengaged from the fight. He let them do so, his attention focused solely on unmoving body of his friend.

‘Aramis!’ – he shouted lowering himself to ground near Porthos head covered in blood. He stretch his hand to check if the musketeer was alive and stilled without breath. His hand was shaking, his fingers nearly touching Porthos neck. Slowly, so slowly he braced himself for the truth and finally searched for a pulse. For few seconds he felt none but eventually, just as he was about to gave up the hope, he felt it. Relief flooded him for a moment. For a very short moment, because pulse was fast and thready. He gently tapped Porthos face but his friend did not react. Athos ghosted his fingers over the wound. It was a bad graze but the bullet had not enter the scull. So Porthos still had chances. Sooner would be he awake the better were the odds. In this moment Athos fully realized that something was very, very wrong. He should have been shoved away by Aramis a few minutes ago, d’Artagnan should be hovering nearby posing questions about Porthos. But nothing like this happened.

Athos left Porthos for few seconds to get to his horse. The animal was grazing grass at the edge of the road. Vent* was a stoic animal, he did not get easily distressed and knew how to use the spare time effectively. Athos took his saddlebag and began a frantic search for bandages. When he found them, he started to work on stemming the blood still flowing from his friend’s head. Having finished that he unwillingly left Porthos to find his brothers.

Athos saw a few unmoving human shapes. He ran in that direction his heart full of fear and anxiety. He let himself a sigh of relief when he realized that none of the body belonged to his friends. However his reprieve was a very short one, as he saw d’Artagnan sword lying in mud, near one of the killed bandits. The hope that the boy went after the attackers slowly faded in his heart. There was only one possibility in which d’Artagnan will follow his chase unarmed – if Aramis had been taken. However their horses were not here. Athos did not trust the moody Aramis mare that she would not ran away when spooked or slightly injured. Se was as beautiful as unpredictable. However the musketeer still clinged on to hope that his brother would simply return from their chase and together they would take care of Porthos. Aramis was really needed here and not there in the mist seeking vengeance or truth. Athos denied to thinking about his friends as captives however he could not erase the impression that this was the case.

After few steps in the fog, he found Aramis’ weapon. It was easy to follow the track of the attackers. If only Porthos was not in desperate need of medical help, Athos would not have hesitate for a moment. Despite of his fear for his missing friend first thing was to look after the wounded one, the one who was within his reach.

Athos remembered the map, he saw in Treville’s office. He was aware that the only place where he could receive help for Porthos was a small village an hour or more of ride from their battlefield. If he believed in God he would plead him that this battlefield was not the last for his friends. Without faith he could only rely on himself and the tiny hope that he will not totally fail his friends.

He came back to Porthos. Nuage*, the big Musketeer’s stallion was standing near to his rider looking as he wanted to shield the man from unknown threat. He allowed Athos to approach. Musketeer checked the bandage, to his horror it was soaked with blood. He put another one and started to lift his friend to get him on the horse. Dead weight of his friend made it almost an impossible task. Athos felt the pain shooting through his body as he overworked his injured muscles. There was also the warm wetness of blood trickling on his skin. His blood. What made it so far less important than blood on his hands. Blood of his friend.

Finally he managed to position himself behind Porthos on the horse back. Athos decided to ride Nuage as he was stronger than his own mount. The musketeer was grateful that Nuage had finally started to accept other riders than Porthos. At the beginning, when Porthos had won the horse in the card game, that would not have been possible.

Athos felt the weight of betraying his brothers by leaving them to their own fate. Porthos’ motionless was scaring him with every horse step. He adjust his hold on his brother so to rest a hand on his heart. He needed to feel its reassuring beating. It grounded him. It gave him an illusion of control of situation.

The ride was long. Athos nearly missed the village hidden in the mist. He approached the first house. He could not dismount and knocked to the door as it meant to leave Porthos and the last thing his friend needed was to fall from the horse.

‘I am Athos from The King’s Musketeers and I need help!’ – he shouted. It was always a risky intruduction. Sometimes it led to receive help, sometimes to receive a bullet. And most often to have to deal with very frightened people. However this time he had some luck. The door opened and nobody tried to shoot him. In the doorway there was a woman standing. She covered her mouth with her hand when she saw the musketeers.

‘There is no doctor here, Monsieur but I can lead you to my sister who is quite skilled in… dealing with illnesses’ – she said with a small voice.

Athos only nodded to her. Suddenly too tired to say anything. The woman took him to another shabby house and knocked.

‘Louise! Come here! There is a wounded…’ – she has not finished when a little boy opened door and watched her intensively, then we saw the musketeers and he retreated shyly.

Athos felt that he is losing the last bit of his patience when eventually a couple emerged from the house. The man help him to bring Porthos inside. There were several children playing in the only room near the big family bed. Fortunately Louise suggested to her sister to take care of children and quickly they were left alone. Louise cut the bandages and started to tend to the wound. Athos was watching her hands. He became more and more worried as Porthos did not react to ministrations. When Louise washed away the blood from his face, the paleness of his dark skin alone would scare Athos.

‘Do you need something Monsieur? Are you injured?’ – Louise’s husband asked

‘No… - first Athos wanted to turn off any offer of help, however he needed his wounds looked after in order not to diminish his fighting ability. He had to find his friends. So he agreed that the man patch him. Two cuts needed some stitches. Athos did not waste time and questioned the man working on him about any bandits in the neighborhood. His host was surprised they met any problems on the road.

‘Nobody is wealthy here. It’s no main road here. So no bandits’ – he explained. Athos assessed him for several seconds however he had no reasons to think that the man was lying.

Louise finished to tend Porthos’ wound. She stood and looked Athos. He hated the compassion in her eyes, he wanted to shout at her, to tell her that she was wrong. Instead of all this, he only asked –‘How is he?’

‘Only time would tell – she answered not eyeing him – he is so still… never a good sign, Monsieur… I am sorry’

Athos wanted to beg her not to be sorry, not to make him grieve Porthos. He hated the idea he had to leave him. He wanted to be here, when he woke up. When, never if. He shut his brain to the thought that leaving alone his dying brother… No, Porthos was not dying! He also had to find his brothers. How could he ever tell Porthos that he was keeping vigil at his bedside while  Aramis and D’Artagnan were facing the worse?!

_*Vent (French) wind, ** Nuage (French) cloud_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis POV. Some answers, less hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all readers, espacially these who've left a trace.
> 
> Warning: tortures, angst, death, dark themes, more hurt than anything else, cruelty.
> 
> Still don't own them.

Aramis

A woman’s scream reached him through the haze of despair. Physical pain was nothing compared to the heartache. However Aramis could not remain disconnected if a woman needed help. He opened his eyes once more to look the stony floor. He turned his head without thinking and the wave of nausea hit him hard. Dry heaves and a coughing fit following them stole his breath and send new agony through his body. He began to suffocate. A few minutes earlier he would not fight so fiercely to remain conscious and alive. But now, he could not simply die when there was a lady in distress

"Aramis..."- his name was called so soft, so lovely. He finally manage to remind his lungs how to breath. Eventually he could look in her direction. He watched her beautiful face, her blue eyes full of tears. She wanted to kneel near him but somebody standing behind her did not let her.  
'Have you already forgotten your lover, musketeer? You won't greet the lady properly?'- a man voice full of venom asked nearly nice.  
'Madame Lancourt? - Aramis whispered- it is a pleasure to meet you. Why have you come here?' - he wanted so badly to comfort her, however he only frightened her more. He realized this as her eyes widened seeing the blood on his lips.

He smile to her, but he knew that the smile would not erase the pain in his eyes. He tried to concentrate on their captor. He did not recognize the voice. Who was that man?!  
'I see I do not have to introduce my wife. I am not fond that you've got to known her very well.' So that was Christine’s husband. Aramis had never met him before. He did not miss it. And now they were at the mercy of this man, who was playing with them. The musketeer could clearly hear grim satisfaction in Lancourt’s voice.  
'Monsieur we can resolve this inconvenience with a duel if you insist on this - Aramis was sure he would not manage to stand by his own. Even the talking was utterly exhausting. But everything what drew captor’s attention from Christine was worth the fatigue and the torment of his body.

'No, musketeer. I would you deny this comfort.  Because you see - my unfaithful wife is pregnant and I cannot be sure whose child she is with"  
Christine shook his head in desperation - 'I am sure that it is your child. Please believe me. Don't harm him... Please'

Aramis stared blankly at the woman clearly shocked. He was fighting to focus on her face to not see Anne’s. His brain merciless show him images of the Queen condemned to be hung because of their betrayal. Images from his worst nightmares.

How many women would die because of him?! Adele, Isabelle… Who would die next just because he had let himself love her?!

Pain startled him awake from his thoughts. He bit his lips not to cry as Lancourt held a red-heated knife pressed to his cheek.  
'I am sorry musketeer but I need you aware of the punishment which Christine will face. You can’t just pass out now. I need you to watch her fate. And I advice that you watch it intentely because your time of watching will soon end. Tomorrow I will plunge this knife into your eyes. I am afraid that Treville won't find a place for a blind marksmen.'  
'No!! You can't'- Christine get a hold on her husband’s cloak and drop to her knees.  
'Let her go. – Aramis was fighting hard to control his voice - Show your greatness and forgive her. I seduced her. She never gave me a consent'- the musketeer was talking fast although his voice was a low coarse whisper - I harmed her. I used her. She is innocent. And she is right - last time we met a half of year ago so the child must be yours. Monsieur please' - he was begging for her life. He felt that her husband would kill her. He could not allow it. He was seriously wounded, he probably would die. But she could live. She could find happiness in motherhood.  
Christine silenced though her eyes spoke volumes. She watched Aramis with horror. He tried to smile to her in order to give her hope. A futile hope as her husband made her to stand up. He pull a gun and pointed at her.  
'Goodbye sweetheart' - the shot was deafening in the small space. Aramis screamed with denial. The scream and following it cough nearly torn him apart. He could not breath. His body was deprived of air. Darkness nearly engulfed him. He could not allow himself this. He heard her cry full of pain and fear. He could not let himself to die now. He had to check on her. He forced his eyes open. She was lying close to him, hands clutched over her stomach. The blood trickling through her fingers.

_A stomach wound..._

Aramis was aware that probably she was beyond any medic help but if he was not bounded he would have tried to comfort her. She tried to crawl towards him but she only cried in pain and remained still. Another dagger driven in his already broken heart.  
Lancourt was nowhere to be seen. Had he left? Aramis was not so sure of it until the blond with the scar reappeared. He kneeled close to Aramis and cut the rope on his hands. Musketeer did not even react watching Christine.  
'Can you help her? '- the blond asked.  
Aramis slowly positioned himself near Cristine. She looked at him her eyes wide.  
'Hush... hush... I... check on you. It'll hurt... I've got to...'- he touched her cheek with his trembling fingers. He could see trust in her eyes. He braced himself. The blond gave him his knife. Aramis took it without a word and cut the dress and the corset around the wound. Christine moaned. Aramis inspected carefully the wound although he knew it. He knew it from his first glance. The distance combined with the entrance and exit wound had told him everything. He close his eyes in defeat.  
'Am I dying?'- she asked her voice broken.  
He wanted to lie. He wanted to comfort her. He made himself to look into her eyes.  
'Yes'- he answered. He could not add any word more.  
The musketeer wanted to apologies to his lover but he could not. What if she forgave him? He was not worth it.  
He gently brush away curled strand of her hair from her sweaty face.  
'Aramis... not your fault... you... showed me what was to be loved... be desired... gave me happiness'- her whisper faltered.  
'Christine… - he barely could talk - I wanted... I wished your happiness... if I ever had known how would it end...'- he lied. He had known very well that his affair with Anne might have end very bad although he had not fought his... their desire.  
Christine wanted to answer him, but only a moan escaped from her lips – ‘H’rts...'

Aramis would give everything for a pain draught for her.

'Hush... hush... _mon chéri_ \- he whispered. He trying to manhandled her into more comfortable position. He cradled her in his arms. His own injuries completely forgotten. He was solely focused on her more and more laborious breathing. She clutched her fingers on his arm as the waves of pain were overcoming her. And all Aramis could to is to gently caressed her hair while whispering prayers.  
'Aramis... I can't... please... finish me...off'- her last words a raw cry of pain - please...'  
'Christine...'  
'No hope... why... pain?'  
'Christine'- he nearly sobbed gently touching her neck. He could give her a moment of relief a bless of unconsciousness. He positioned his fingers on her throat. He felt her frantic pulse. He search her eyes. He saw in them the silent plea. With great effort he lifted himself to place a gentle kiss on her lips and clamped his fingers on her arteries.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst, more hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing. This time I do not post special warnings.

Athos watched Porthos intensely as if he hoped that his stare would wake him. Nothing happened. His brother was lying there unmoving, pale. The white bandage was contrasting with dark curled hair. Several minutes later Athos braced himself. He squeezed gently his friend's hand and turned to Louise who was mixing some herbs in a little bowl. It smelled like poultice made by Aramis.   
Aramis... That thought made Athos to act. He wrote a few words on a piece of paper and then approached to Louise.  
'Madame. I have to find my men. If I am not back by tomorrow I ask you for a messenger who can deliver this message to captain Treville in Paris'- he put his letter on the table - please take care of Porthos'- he put a purse heavy with coins near the letter. If only money could ensure his friend’s survival…  
'Monsieur! – Louise was baffled - I can't take your money... Monsieur, it will be just... - she searched for an appropriate word not accustomed to speak to a musketeer - just bad - she shook her head - and if you think I allow you to leave without any food! - she gave him a loaf of bread and some cheese - you need to eat. You're not be good to your men hungry and tired - she also handed him a bottle of wine - I guess it worse than in Paris but... just take it." – she added a little ashamed.  
Athos slightly bow his head overcome by her care and kindness.  
He took the purse and closed her hands on it.  
'You will need it, Madame, to buy food for him – he gestured towards Porthos – and for the person who’ll ride to Paris.'  
Louise wanted to protest but she could not deny the musketeer’s reasoning. She only thanked humbly.

Athos spare one more glance to Porthos and left. He could not waste any more time, he ate some bread on horseback however he did not feel like eating. Louise was right - blood loss and fatigue were taking their toll on him. His body was screaming for a rest but its pleas had to be ignored.

Though the musketeer rode as fast as the misty road allowed it, it began to darken when he arrived at the place of the fight. There was something different. The bodies were nowhere to be seen. Someone must have come back for fallen comrades. There were multiple tracks of horses hooves. Three groups left in different directions. Athos had no indication in which his friends were. He chose one of them hoping that the luck will help him. Mist and darkness made tracking almost impossible even with the torch in the hand. Athos tried to follow as he hated the thought to give up on his friends. If there had been only one group he would eventually tracked it down. However what if he followed the wrong group? That one without captives? The other thing was that in dark fog the possibility of omitting a group was high especially that essential light was betraying Athos position. It seemed an easy way to be killed. If musketeer's death could help his brothers he would not hesitate for a single breath. But it would not. Not now. With heavy heart and guilt ripping his soul he turned back to the village. He had to check on Porthos. He felt as he was failing his friends once more. The fatigue was becoming harder and harder to ignore. His horse was also tired. Vent tried to slow down a bit but nervousness of his rider was enough to keep him going really fast.  
Eventually they arrived at the sleeping village. Athos dismounted and swayed. Vent supported him.  
The musketeer wanted to stand a few moments to take comfort from animal warmth but the door swung open. Athos glanced Louise and fear for Porthos paralyzed him for a second.   
'Monsieur! - Louise ran towards him. She stopped when she saw deathly paleness of Athos face.  
He is alive – she assured him quickly - No change. But a man came here. He left this for you'- she handed him a piece of paper and a pistol wrapped in a cloth. Aramis pistol. Athos took it as a relic. He would give it back to his brother. The world could not be so cruel to deny him this.  
He read the message.  
'Aramis is in old church. Take him before dawn. The youngest of yours is dead'  
Athos closed his eyes for a moment. It was an obvious trap however he could not ignore the chance to retrieve his friend. He denied the information about d'Artagnan's death. He just could not believe it. And he would not until he saw his brother’s body. What would not happen!  
'Where is the old church, Madame?'- he asked, focusing on acting.  
'You mean the haunted church? - Louise bit her lips - when do you want to ride there?'  
'Now!'- it was the only answer he could give - who brought the message?'- he reminded himself to ask.  
'A blond. Slim and tall with the scar on the cheek. My nephew will show you the way to the church. Eat in meantime.'  
'Madame it is a trap. I cannot endangered anyone'  
‘You want find that place, don’t you? And time does matter. So, please, Monsieur, trust me. Pierre is not a soldier by the is somewhat skilled with sword’  
Musketeer wanted to disagree but she was right - Aramis had no time. The dawn was coming in few hours. Athos would not risk further his friend’s life. He nodded simply and took advantage of the fact that Louise went out. He sat near Porthos staring into his too pale face. There were only trace of blood on the bandage. Athos wanted to believe that was a good sign. He touched Porthos cheek. It was slightly too warm but not burning.  
‘Please… don’t leave me… wake up… please…’ – Athos begged. He took his friend’s hand into his own – please look at me... open your eyes… for me. I need you.’ Porthos never refused his help or presence when needed. So it was so wrong that he did even stir when Athos was pleading for his assistance.  
Approaching steps made Athos to stand up. Louise came with a young man, completely dressed with a sword strapped at his waist. There was something painfully familiar in boy’s bright hazel eyes. Athos forbade himself to think about d’Artagnan.   
‘Pierre will show you the way’ – Louise said.  
Athos made clear that the boy had to follow his orders and they left. Athos took his brother’s horse. It did not feel right however Vent was too tired. The musketeer was grateful for Pierre’s silence. The boy simply led them through fields covered in fog. The road was invisible or even non-existent there.   
‘How far?’ –Athos lost his fight with impatience  
‘We’re close…’ – boy wanted to add something but Athos silenced him with a gesture. They both heard a horse running in their direction. The musketeer stand between the coming attacker and Pierre. Nuage moved his ears forward. Athos recognized his behavior and with a hand touch he signaled that the horse should remained quiet instead of snorting. The animal obeyed. D’Artagnan had learnt him this trick. The Gascon was really skilled with horses. Athos prepared himself for face an attack, but still he did not managed to stop thinking about his youngest brother’s fate.   
Another horse appeared from the mist and abruptly stopped. There was no rider. It was Armias mare – Orage - her eyes were widen, her ears flat back, her nostrils moving nervously. She looked tired, still saddled.   
‘Hush… hush…’ – Athos caught her reins. She allowed that watching him anxiously with her dark beautiful eyes.   
Athos sighed and told Pierre to continue their ride. The boy stopped after a few minutes.  
‘If you want to be unheard we should leave horses here’ – he explained.  
‘Stay with them. I’ll call you when you’re needed’ – answered the musketeer.   
Fortunately Pierre did not protest. Athos silently silently skulked to the hardly visible small building. It seemed that the place was empty, however he could smell some traces of smoke in the air. Athos surrounded the church to be sure that nobody was lurking nearby and then approached to the doors. The silence reigned inside. Cautiously he pulled the doors. They opened with a squeak. Musketeer glanced inside. He saw two human shapes unmoving on the floor. One of them was a woman.  
Athos entered checking once more for any assailant but there was no place to hide and then there was no way to stop him from running toward bodies. Not, no bodies. He corrected himself. He recognized the familiar shape of his brother in the grey light of coming day. The woman was cradled in Aramis arms. However there was nothing intimate in this scene as Athos saw the dark pool of blood beneath them.  
‘No… no… Aramis… please…’ – he whispered   
Not Aramis… not his brother… He could not afford to lose him. Not now, not ever. They should die together in a battle. Athos should die first…  
Athos knees buckled when he glanced into unseeing glassy eyes of his friend. So dark in Aramis ashen face, nearly as dark as blood on his lips and on his hands. Maybe he just had smeared it on his face – Athos wanted so badly to believe in it. He was lying to himself. He knew it. He was too late to save him. He failed him as his friend, as his leader and as his brother. Athos shaking fingers touched Aramis cheek. It was so cold. The musketeer bowed his head in utter defeat, his vision suddenly blurred.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is d'Artagnan really dead or is the information about his death slightly exagerated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.

 

D’Artagnan

Something reached him through the fog of pain and cold. Young musketeer slowly lifted his head. He could smell a vague smoke in the air. Someone was burning wet branches. Pine branches. There might be his friends but judging from his horse behavior there were strangers there. Still he desperately needed help but what if he turn himself in his former captors hands?

D’Artagnan slowly approached, he knew Nuit would betray his position. So he slid down from her back. He did not even try to stand, he just use the animal side to lower himself gently in the wet grass. It was so cold. Tremors started to wrack his body. He closed eyes fighting with the fire who consumed his side. When he could once more breathe, although shallowly, he started to crawled towards the smoke source. Each movement hurt him. He just wanted to lie in this grass and succumb to the darkness, to nothingness without pain.

‘He will be disappointed – he heard a man’s voice – and it’ll hurt us’. The palatable fear rouse young musketeer a little.

‘Don’t despair – snorted another man – we’ve given him Aramis. He hates him. The boy, what was his name – d’Artagnan was only an addition’

‘An addition? – third man joined the conversation – I won’t say that. The boy was a part of business. He’ll be furious that he’s dead’

The conversation ceased suddenly. D’Artagnan guessed that something must have happened. He knew it was wise to retreat, he was in no fighting condition. God, he could not even stand.

If they were aware of his presence, they would just deliver him to person who wanted him like a little defenseless puppy. Puppy. He got used that his friend called him this way. He really needed to feel their presence now. He would even accept some mothering from Aramis. But Aramis was captured. And he was their another aim. Why? What was he needed for?! This question seemed crucial.

‘That’s for Aramis – he heard – however you don’t deserve it. You damaged the boy. I told you that I need him alive’

‘He tried to escape, Sire’

‘So you killed him? Idiots?! Where’s his body?’

‘He fell down the slope… should we retrieve his corpse?’

‘YES – yelling made d’Artagnan head hurt – I find some use for it.’

Some use for it?! Young musketeer was stunned. Of course they would become aware that he is alive when they saw no his body. They would hunt him down. Their sire, whoever he was, did not sound pleasant.

‘You say their leader is alive?’

‘As you ordered, Sire’

‘Good. So find him and the body and we’ll play’

D’Artagnan felt sick and this time not because of his wounds. What was all this about?!

‘Pity the boy did not take money…’ – someone murmured as providing him with an answer.

_Paris tavern. D’Artagnan sat with a glass of wine. He did not enjoy drinking. He was waiting for Athos to pass out from the amount of alcohol and to simply take him home. A man sat near to him. Not a musketeer, not a guard. He watched slightly surprised. His surprise changed into indignation when the man offered him money for information. Before d’Artagnan could react and arrest the man disappeared in the crowd._

‘Yeah, pity. He would be a worth purchase. Better than you all. Silence. I’ll be here by the evening. You’ve some chance of redemption – their sire chuckled – after dawn take from the church Aramis body. It may be also useful.’

D’ Artagnan knew that he had to make his way back to the horse and ride away from this place. He needed to find Athos, because he was no fit to save anyone. He hated his weakness, his body for betraying him. To return to Nuit took the eternity of agony. When finally he reached her he tried to remind himself how to breathe. He had to gather all his strength before a painful fight to mount on her back again. He could not afford to fall and make noise. Nervously and so awfully slowly he stood up using his mare as support. She nuzzled his hair gently. D’ Artagnan biting his lips to muffle his screams and moans eventually managed to lift himself to the saddle. He felt a warm trickle on his side and leg. Bad. The wound started to bleed.

He rode away from the captors and felt his guilt suffocating him when he started to think that he was leaving Aramis. He had no idea where the church was. He had to find Athos. Find Athos… He swayed dangerously and that was when he decided to bound himself to the saddle. Nuit walked into darkness of the forest, her reins loosen but her rider still in the saddle. D’Artagnan bent so his forehead was lying on her mane. This position somewhat eased the pain but made the breathing more challenging - he had the impression that there is still too little air in his lungs.

The lost track of time. When reality came back to him he was at the place of their fight. There was nobody there but he hoped that Nuit would somehow be able to follow his friends…

It meant Athos and Porthos…

Was Porthos alive?

A fear froze boy’s heart. He remembered the shot, he remembered Porthos falling. But then he felt a wave of peace – Athos was with Porthos. Athos would save him. Athos would find Aramis in time. He believed in his mentor. Even despite of the lack of certainty that he was still to be saved. If not… Athos would bury him. D’Artagnan realized that was something really wrong with him if that thought gave him comfort.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and reading.  
> This time some hope. A bit of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all mistakes I've made and I'll be making.

Athos

His world has ended. He could not think. His fingers gently touched Aramis face. He felt rage when he realized the burn on his friend’s cheek but it did not matter than. Younger musketeer would have hate this scar if only the wound had chance to scar. Athos knew that he was supposed to take Aramis and leave this place, however he could not care less in that moment. The thought of his other brothers only made him feel more guilty. How could he ever look into their eyes? Suddenly he felt something on his hand. He froze. A faint movement of air. Like… an exhale? His hands were trembling when he searched for a pulse. It was so faint but Athos felt his hope stirring.

After calling Pierre, he gently untangle the women from Aramis arms. He recognized her, he had once seen her with his friend in Paris. Was it about their dalliance? All that trap? It sounded impossible. Athos shook his head, those questions could wait and his miraculously alive brother could not. He checked him for injuries although he knew that there was no other possibility than a horseback ride. He sighed when he discovered still sluggishly bleeding head wound. He found also bruising on Armais chest. One rip was broken. But it was the coldness of Aramis body which scared older musketeer. Suddenly he recalled the note which told him where his friend was. The sunrise was close. Athos wrap his cloak around his brother. Although he tried to be very gentle, Aramis groaned as pain reached him through unconsciousness.

‘Aramis? Open…’ – Athos trailed off. His friend’s eyes were still open and unfocused.

‘Aramis? It’s Athos. You’re be alright’

‘T’s…? Th… killed h’m. Killed d’Art…’ – mumbled Aramis.

Athos wanted to contradict but suddenly no words did he find. Aramis might have known the truth.

‘Have you seen it?’ – he asked instead of giving false comfort

But Aramis eyes closed. Athos nervously checked for a pulse. Only after finding it he started to breathe.

 Pierre came with horses. Orage neighed anxiously at the sight of her rider. She caressed his face.

Athos told Pierre to take the woman’s body. The musketeer cradled his brother in arms. He was holding his hand on wounded man’s chest to feel the beat of his heart. How many time did he ride in this way? However usually Aramis was the one unharmed or conscious enough to take care of wounded.

The misty, rainy day had already began when they reached the village. Pierre helped Athos to take Aramis inside. At Porthos bedside a young girl was sitting. She stood up when they entered.

‘Pierre fetch aunt Louise’ - the girl asked. She was about fourteen, Her face was a mess of scars.

‘I am Claire. Aunt Louise is teaching me how to help… Put him on the table, please Monsiuer’

Athos did what she asked. He started to wash down blood from Aramis face. It was so wrong that the Spaniard was so still. He did not even flinched when Athos start to clean his wound. It needed stitching although the skull seemed to be intact. Louise stitched and put poultice on it. Then she checked for other injuries. Athos tried to read something from her face. Her look was serious. Only when she finished patching Aramis she lifted her head. Her eyes met Athos’ blue ones.

‘Head wound, two ribs broken, one cracked – she explained – there is a possibility of minor internal bleeding and a risk of infection.’

‘What are his chances?’ – Athos asked. The information about possibility of an internal bleeding hit him hard. It could mean that Aramis would die.  

“I don’t know- replied Louise with a sigh – if he survive next day and his condition won’t deteriorate he should survive. Too early to say anything about recovery. You know better than me how dangerous and tricky the head injuries are – she glanced towards Porthos – make your other friend comfortably and rest. Claire will sit with them. She will wake you if there is any change.’

‘Later. I… want to be alone with them.’

Louise shrugged and left. Claire went with her.

Athos was sitting between his seriously injured brothers. And his youngest was still missing, possibly dead. No! He could not believe it until there had been no choice. He brushed away hair from Aramis face.

‘You must wake up. You must recover… I need you… Don’t leave me, please. I don’t want to be the only one to remain. Alone’

‘You’re not alone’ – there was a weak wishper and Athos felt Porthos hand gripping his own – I am ‘ere’

‘Porthos!’

His brother grimaced. His head was killing him. He wanted to return to the blackness without pain. However there were questions he needed to ask.

‘Ar’mis?’

“Laying here’ – said quickly Athos

‘How bad?’

‘Bad but still holding on’

‘D’Art…?’

‘I don’t know…’ – Athos voice was bleak, betraying his distress.

‘You know something’

‘I… can’t, won’t say it.’

‘And you? Go sleep.‘ – Porthos was close to falling asleep

‘I’m fine’

‘You’ll find ‘im’ - mumbled Porthos as he closed his eyes losing his fight with sleep but his finger still gripping Athos hand. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fever and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank s for all reviews.  
> Angst, hurt no comfort here.  
> A shorter one this time. I hope you’ll enjoy. Italics is for memories and dreams.

D'Artagnan  
He hovered on the edge of consciousness. From time to time he was aware enough to open his eyes. Suddenly he realized that Nuit was not following the road. Why? He had no idea. If he were near Paris, he would be sure that his faithful mare would take him home. But here? Maybe Nuit could reach the place of their last night camp. Where that had been? She still should have followed the road… Maybe she was going after his friends? Impossible!  
 _‘You cannot learn a horse to track. You can make it find a way home but not track. It’s is not a dog.’ – his father was warmly laughing._  
D’Artagnan could feel tears in his eyes. He missed his father so much. He was defenseless every time, when his memories returned. Especially when they were combined with injuries. He snuggled his cheek to horse mane to find an anchor. He was so tired. He closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He felt cold and hot in the same time. Shudders were increasing pain. He bit his lips hard not to voice agony wrecking him. First - it was not safe – someone was hunting him. Second - his pride would not let him doing it. The taste of blood made him nauseous and thirsty. The water in the saddle bag was out of his reach. If he dismounted he would never return on the horseback.  
He must have been unconscious for a while because Nuit had found a road. Was it road they had travelled? He did not know. He lost the sense of direction long time ago. The grayish darkness surrounded him.

_Aramis was near him. He could see the anxiety in medic’s eyes. He kneeled close to boy’s head and pull out a hand to touch his face. D’ Artagnan wanted so badly to feel his fingers. The touch would ground him. However when Aramis should have touched him, he disappeared_.  
'Aramis!'- he tried to cry. A soft whisper left his lips. There was nobody there. He was alone. And he was still on the horseback, so he was becoming delirious. He needed help. But here was something not clear concerning Aramis. If only he could remember what it was…  
 _The trees took the shapes of riders_.  
D'Artagnan was waiting not daring to breath. Friends or enemies?  
 _Athos came near him. He sat on the ground, watching the boy. D'Artagnan could see that his mentor was disappointed._  
 _'You let Aramis die'- the older musketeer accused him_  
 _Gascon wanted to protest but Athos was right. He had retreated instead of finding the church, finding Aramis. And that was why the medic disappeared. It was only his ghost._  
 _'You have failed him. As you failed your father. You bring death to ones that love you' – Athos said. There was so much sadness and bitterness in his voice._

Tears streamed down d’Artagnan’s face.

_Older musketeer stood up._   
_'Don't leave me, please'- d'Artagnan wanted to beg but only he was able to whine._   
_But Athos guessed his plea._   
_'You left your brother. You left him to his death. Now you will face your own alone.'_   
_'T's pl’se...Bury me…'_   
_'No... you do not deserve it. I am sorry'_

Athos was right. He had to leave him. They had to find his body. It was important for the safety of others.  
‘T’s’ – the young musketeer lifted a little his head. There was nobody here. He was hanging in an awkward position. If not the ropes, he would have fallen. He tried to sit better but Nuit stumbled on wet leaves. She managed to regain balance but her sharp movement make pain piercing his side. He felt something shifting inside him. The agony overcame him. He screamed. It did not bring any relief. In contrary - everything went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve forgotten to put this information in previous chapters – Nuit means Night, Orage – Storm.


	9. Chapter 9

Athos  
He gently pulled out his hand from Porthos fingers. He was so tired but with the daylight he had chances to find d'Artagnan. He glanced at Aramis, remembering his words about the Gascon. Maybe Aramis knew something. Athos was not sure if he really wanted to hear the gruesome truth from his wounded friend. He would not believe in d’Artagnan’s death if he had not find his body.

He stood up somewhat unsteadily. He wanted to go to Louise to ask her once more about Aramis condition. However when he got up on his feet he realized that the herbwoman approached him with a tray of food. She put it in front of him.  
'Eat- her tone did not leave any place for discussion - then I'll check your wounds and you can sleep'  
'No, I can't... have to find my brother'- he whispered  
'You're dead on your feet' – she said dryly.  
'I'll be here in the evening. Then I’ll rest. Too difficult to search.'- he replied bitterly aware that he was running out of forces.  
She snorted angrily and pull out her hand to touch his forehead. He flinched and hit the wall with his head. Hard.  
'I'm sorry. Didn't want to startle you Monsieur. I just wanted to check your fever.' - she apologized to him.  
I’m fine. Nothing is your fault'- musketeer reassured her - do you know when he may wake?'- he gestured towards Aramis  
'Not sure'- she frowned touching Spaniard’s cheek - he is becoming too hot. - she sighed and went to the kitchen for a bowl with water and a rag. She handed it to Claire who was standing in the corner of the room.  
'Cool him down. I'll prepare some herbs. And you have to eat - she watched Athos seriously - Then you drink my tea and then, only then, I’ll let you take Pierre and leave. Have you understood me?' – she kept her gaze on his face until he nodded. He felt sick with her care for him. He did not deserve it. He watched the food without enthusiasm, however he knew that his body needed to eat. He took the bowl of broth into his hands. It was warm. It smelled with herbs. Aramis usually used this kind of herbs when he was cooking. The Spaniard was not a brilliant cook, however his rabbit stew was just wonderful. Athos closed his eyes. He missed his friend’s voice. Their evenings on the road, when they sit near campfire. Would he ever have a chance once more to listen to Aramis gently teasing their youngest brother and Porthos warmly laughing at them?

'The noblewoman you've brought here was dead. – herbwoman voice woke musketeer from his reverie. Louise paused judging Athos reaction. Seeing none she continued – “Maybe it's important for you, musketeer - she was deadly shot. She died in agony… and she was pregnant.' – Louise voice slightly trembled.

Athos only nodded acknowledging information, his expression neutral. However his heart was beating wildly as he kept on asking himself one question - was it Aramis child? He hope - no. As he was not sure if he was able to help Aramis overcome his grief.  
Porthos groaned saving Athos from the turmoil of thoughts.

Louise immediately was near wounded musketeer. She gently pose her hand on his cheek and murmured softly comforting words. Porthos sighed and quietened down.  
'He did wake'- Athos informed Louise and was quite astonished that she smiled with relief. She really cared about them. It was comforting and ashaming. They had brought so much chaos in her life.   
'Did he talk to you? Have he remembered his name?' – she asked.  
'Yes and... I think yes. He remembered names of his friends.'  
'A very good sign'- she smiled happily- did he drink anything?'  
'No.'  
'Was he too nauseous?'- she frowned  
'I don't know. He... didn’t vomit. I haven't given him water... I... - the guilt in Athos eyes was talking everything.  
Louise shook her head.  
'You must rest. Next time he would be more lucid than you!'  
'He was'- answered Athos ashamed.  
Louise left him only to be back with tea.  
'Drink it. I think you have some fever. It will help'  
He accepted without a world. It was as bitter as Aramis tea which he made them drink when they were wounded.  
Aramis... He watched Claire gently wiping his face. The younger musketeer became restless as fever was taking hold.  
Athos let Louise redress his injuries. He could feel from her sharp moves that she was irritated.  
"You managed to pull a few stitches. I must take them out and restitch the wound. It will hurt- she warned taking a bottle of wine.  
He only nodded allowing her to do it. He managed not to flinch when the alcohol burned his wound. He was almost asleep when she finished to patch him. He couldn't allowed this. So he got up and went to the door. He felt her disapproval but she remained silent.  
Pierre was waiting for him outside with Vent and another horse saddled. It was raining heavily. The  chances of tracking anyone down diminishing drastically.  
Pierre suggested to check a few ruined farms. Athos agreed only after few hours of fruitless tracking. They were already soaked.  
Hardly visible road led to the ruins. Pierre told him that they were situated near little church where they had found Aramis. Athos gestured to the boy to stay behind him when they approached. There were traces of a camp. The campfire was still warm. Athos swore bitterly. Someone had spent night there. A few persons. But their tracks had already disappeared due to the rain. It was hopeless.  
Pierre and Athos returned to the place of musketeers’ fight and started to go in circles. It was the last resort. However it quickly demanded from them to dismount and led their horses through the dense forest. It was exhausting. Athos begun to stumble. Only sheer willpower made him to move forward. Willpower and fear for d'Artagnan.

Arthos stopped abruptly seeing a dried pool of clotted blood on leaves covering earth. There was a lot of blood. Someone must fell from the slope and then crawled bleeding to the tree. There were also traces of horse hooves.  
'D'Artagnan'- the musketeer whispered with despair.  
'There was only one horse here'- said Pierre.

Athos nodded absently. He felt mesmerize by blood. So much blood.  D’Artagnan must have been seriously wounded. Was he still alive? Athos closed his eyes touching the leaves covered in his little brother's blood. It was a curse to be Athos brother. It meant death. How could he face tomorrow without his little brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos POV this time because so far he did not have this posibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reviews! They mean so much for me!

Porthos

The pain came together with awareness. He was not sure if he really wanted to wake. He felt as a herd of horses took a ride through his head. However he was too thirsty to doze off. 

'Water?'- he whispered hopefully. He felt someone hands gently lifting his head and a cool cup touching his lips.  
'Slowly. Drink slowly'- a very young female voice whispered. He obeyed but growled his disappointment when the cup was taken away.  
'Please Monsieur. Wait a moment to let the water settle down. It would hurt to throw up. Could you open your eyes?’ – the gently slightly frightened question.  
It took him long to lift his eyelids. He squinted because of too much light. Someone near him must have understood immediately as soon only one candle was left.  
'Thanks'- he mumbled - Athos' asleep?'  
'No. - she answered quietly- went to search one of yours'  
Musketeer waited for her to come into his eyesight. He prefer not to move his head. Finally she did. He winced. Brown hair covered a part of her face but could not hide the awful scars. She must have been badly burn in a fire. If she survived these wounds it meant that the village healer was really good. 

‘Have I hurt you?’ – she was obviously scared before she interpreted his reaction and bow her head – I’m sorry Monsieur.’

‘No. T’s fine. What ‘is condition?’ – Porthos decided that changing the topic would be the best.

  
'Aunt said he should rest but he didn't listen to her'  
'Of c’rse... and wh't your aunt s’ys 'bout 'mis?' - talking was tiring.  
She looked at him for a moment and offered him some more water before replying.  
'She is anxious about his fever. She cleaned his wounds and hopes that herbs will help.'  
'And 'is chances?'- he asked fearfully  
'If the fever break, he should recover’ –she answered.

If… Porthos sighed. He should hope. He could have received a far more worse answer.

The girl was sitting near him on the big bed, probably the only one, family bed in this house. The musketeer could not see what she was exactly doing, she was also hiding Aramis from his sight. However Porthos did not fancy the change of position.  
'How do you feel?'- she asked timidly  
'Head 'urts.' – Porthos did not see the reason to hide it.  
'Are you hungry?'  
He thought for the moment. He was not but maybe it was wise to eat something? Especially when Athos was trying to kill himself with fatigue and probably guilt although Porthos had no idea why Athos might feel guilty. Obviously he knew that was because of their wounds and d’Artagnan’s disappearing. However he also was sure that Athos was not responsible for all this.  
'Not r’lly – he replied – but I’ll try’ – someone should be reasonable here.  
She stood up so he could see Aramis. There was a bandage on his head and another one on his chest. Near it a wet rag was lying. Spaniard’s pale skin was glistening with sweat. Porthos gently touch his friend’s cheek. Aramis leaned to his touch, turning to him. The dark skinned musketeer felt a surge of fury when he spotted a burn on his brother’s face. It has been done purposely!

Porthos whispered his friend’s name, wanting so badly to protect him from pain, from cruelty. The sharpshooter was looking so fragile. 

_ ‘Why you are staring at me as I should shattered just from your gaze?’ – the question was hardly audible. Aramis was still very week, medic did not claim him out of danger but Porthos could recognize the teasing in his friend’s voice. He laughed merrily watching the warm, so familiar glint in Aramis eyes slowly transforming into a mocking worry – ‘Haven’t you hit your head too hard?’ – a small smile playing on his lips made Porthos so happy after two days of silent vigil at his best friend’s bed. _

‘Monsiuer?’ – the girl returned with a cup of broth. Musketeer tried to sit. She helped him supporting him. Her strength was surprising. She leaned him back against the wall. The wave of dizziness hit him hard. He closed his eyes waiting for it to pass

'Aunt will give you something for pain. I may wake her.' – she offered worried  
'No... i'm fine. What's your name?' – Porthos made himself to open his eyes. He did not to scare this girl.  
'Claire'- she passed the cup to him and take the rag from Aramis chest. She immersed in the bowl with cold water and continued to cool down the wounded marksman.

Porthos finished the broth and placed the cup on bed. The sleep claimed him and he had no intention to fight it.

A scream awoke him. He lunged for his weapon, which he had earlier spotted laying on a table near the bed, his own injuries forgotten. He glimpsed at frightened Claire who leapt away probably more startled by Porthos reaction than delirious scream.

‘No… por favor… No ella… Yo ruego… No!’* – Aramis pleaded with despair. So much Porthos was able to understand. He got rid of his weapon and took his friend's hand in his owns but Aramis pulled it out and tried to curl up. Porthos was not sure what exactly were his brother injuries but reminded that Aramis always trying to prevent them from curling up this way when wounded. So he cradled him in his arms talking some nonsense words of comfort. He winced when he felt how hot Aramis was. The Spaniard struggle weakly for a few moments. Then he went limply but Porthos could still hear his whispered pleas. He gestured to Claire to bring the bowl with cold water nearer to him and started to wipe his friend's face murmuring promises of safety.  
'I'll take c're of 'im, Madame'- he whispered to Claire – you’ve m’tioned som’thing for pain...?’ – he hated himself for his request but he needed to be in better shape for Aramis and his headache was becoming nearly unbearable. Porthos closed his eyes, leaned his head on Aramis arm. He was slightly rocking his brother. The sharpshooter calmed down.

_ 'How long have you been sitting with him?'- captain’s question made him to rise his head. He was not aware it was the day already.  
'As long as he will need it'- the only answer which came to his mind. It wasn't exactly the reply to Treville's question but Porthos could not care less about it. _

__

Porthos would do it again. In a bizarre way relieved that he managed to provide some comfort to his friend. He heard familiar steps. He braced himself to open his eyes. Even the small amount of light which was there hurt him.  
'Aramis?'- the despair in Athos voice made Porthos immediately react. The older musketeer was deathly white, grief in his gaze.  
'e is alive, Ath's. H'is alive. Fev'rish and delirious. Savoy bad delirious' – assured Porthos quickly frightened that his leader would collapse. Older musketeer sunk down on bed with relief.  
'H've you found anything?'- Porthos asked still gently rocking Aramis.  
'Not far from the place of our fight there was a puddle of blood. Someone tumbled down from a slope. It seems that then he's gone on the horseback. One horse. It reached the road and I lost the track'  
Porthos grimaced at the guilt which heavily infused each Athos word.  
'Nuit will find the way...'  
'Which way? To Garrison?! It's possible but it may takes even three days...' - Athod raised his voice what made Porthos to close his eyes when pain exploded in his head.  
'Sorry'- Athos trailed away.  
've you sent a message to c’pt’n?' - Porthos asked barely audible.  
'Yes. This dawn.'  
'T'll me all you know'- Porthos asked.  
Athos complied carefully to not raise his voice.

‘They know where we are’ – commented Porthos eyeing his leader worriedly. The fact that Athos did not mentioned it spoke volumes about his state of mind. – ‘You’ll find d’Artagnan’ – Porthos said gently. – Have faith’

‘Do you have it?’ – Athos asked bitterly

‘I have the faith in you’ – answered Porthos without hesitation

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *No, please. Not her. I beg (google translation, I do not know Spanish, so if anyone can kindly correct me, please)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren who gently beta this chapter.  
> And thank you all for the kind reviews.

Athos

Hours of searching had been in vain. Obviously he could not be sure that the blood he had found belonged to d'Artagnan. With the approaching evening, he reluctantly agreed with Pierre that they needed to go back to the village. Once more he left behind his wounded brother. He was not skilled enough to find him or to save him.   
  
They arrived at Louise's house. Athos dismounted Vent and needed to lean into him. The solid and warm shape of the animal brought him not only the badly needed physical support but also a little comfort. He was dead on his feet. Athos could not longer lie to himself – his body really needed rest. He braced himself and stepped aside, leaving his horse in Pierre's care. He opened the door to their shelter. There was not much light there but enough for the musketeer to discern the shapes. Athos in a few hasty steps made his way to the bed and froze.   
  
Porthos was cradling Aramis, rocking him softly. Pain lines were clearly visible on big man's face and Athos suddenly could not breathe. Had Aramis passed away?! It would explain why neither of the women were here. The healer and her apprentice had decided to give them privacy to bid the final goodbye to their brother. Athos felt that he had reached the edge of his resistance. He choked out his friend's name and watched mesmerized as Porthos slowly opened his eyes, foggy with pain. And then the pain somehow receded, awareness taking its place.  
  
His friend's reassuring words and the relief following them made Athos' knees buckle. He slumped heavily near his brothers. The rest of the evening was a blur – he knew that he provided Porthos with a detailed report about the happenings since their fight. He hated how many gaps were still in his account. He ate what Louise gave him and then he fell asleep. It was wrong to leave Aramis once more in Louise's care. It was wrong that Porthos, who should rest, was left to fight the pain in order to calm down their ailing brother. He was not aware enough to understand what Louise was trying to say to him about Aramis' condition. He remembered only that she said she was confused. The fever was worsening, but the infection from the wound was clearing.   
  
_Blackness. Someone was calling his name from a distance but Athos could not reply. All he felt was the blood slipping through his fingers, desperately clamped on his brother's wound. His brother who was bleeding out in his arms. He could feel under his fingers the fluttering beats of the heart in Porthos' broad chest. But he was also sure that he had pushed away the cross Aramis was wearing. How could he confuse Porthos with d'Artagnan lean shape?! He had lost them all. This was the only answer._  
  
Suddenly a woman's voice reached him.  
  
'Louise! There is a horse with a dead body bound to it. I... I think it's one of those soldiers staying at yours place.' – there was panic, sadness, and fear in that voice.  
  
Athos suddenly found himself running. He could not say that he was awake. It was like a part of a nightmare, like running in quicksand. He saw Nuit and knew that the mare recognized him, as she broke into a gentle run towards him. He lunged for d'Artagnan, gripping the horse's reins and pulling Nuit to a stop. He caught the boy, who was tied to the horseback. Athos' brain supplied him with the information that a rope tied this way meant that the boy must have done it by himself.   
  
The musketeer nearly withdrew his hand when he felt the hotness of boy's skin. He was burning with fever.   
  
'D'Artagnan'- he whispered.   
  
The boy leaned into his touch.   
  
'T's? bury me…' – Athos could hear a broken plea.  
  
'No!' – all his fear- all his anger was put in this single word. The boy tried to recoil but Athos did not let him. D'Artagnan did not fight him.  
  
'You're right. Not safe… Aramis… church…' – he mumbled.  
  
'Aramis is here. He is safe. You are safe. I've got you.' Now Athos knew what needed to be said. The boy went totally limp. However, his mentor still could hear his labored breathing.   
  
Suddenly, the older musketeer acknowledged the presence of Porthos. His friend's face was ashen green, but his voice sounded steady. 'Hold him. I'll cut the ropes.'  
  
Athos obeyed. He gently carried his youngest brother to their shelter at Louise's home. The healer already had cleared her kitchen table and gestured to Athos to lay d'Artagnan there. Athos realized that he was now the only one from their group who had not been manhandled on that piece of furniture.   
  
'I'll need your help' Louise told Athos. ' But first make your friend sit somewhere.' She glanced at Porthos, who was kneeling on the floor, obviously fighting the wave of nausea.  
  
Claire gave Athos a cup of tea. 'Make him drink this.' The girl seemed to be used to taking over when a patient needed help. A common trait in herbwomen.   
  
After settling Porthos down, Athos helped Louise cut d'Artagnan's shirt. He tried to remain calm when the makeshift bandage was gone and they saw the wound. It was oozing blood and pus. After Louise washed away some blood, they could also see how angrily red the edges of the wound were. There were also two reddish welts surrounding it that were visible on the undamaged skin.  
  
'Is there an exit wound?' asked Athos , remembering the first thing Aramis always checked.  
  
Louise put her hands under the boy's back.  
  
'No. I suppose it is a gunshot wound?' She sounded uncertain. Probably it was the first gunshot she had seen in her life. The injury of Porthos she had tended to was not a typical gunshot. 'And the bullet is still inside?' she inquired.  
  
'Yes,' replied Athos.  
  
Louise took in a sharp breath. The musketeer was watching her hands ghost over d'Artagnan's body. The boy had also his forearm cut. but that injury was only slightly infected. Fortunately the head wound which matted his hair with blood was superficial.  
  
Athos stared at Louise, who finished checking the boy. Her fingers gently laid on his chest at the level of his heart. Slowly, the healer lifted her eyes to find the musketeer's gaze.  
  
'He is dying, Monsieur. I can try to retrieve the bullet and clean his wounds. It would be very painful for him and I do not think it would save his life.' She bit her lip, never lowering her eyes . 'I can make him as comfortable as possible to ease his last hours.'  
  
Athos could not think. The healer was still saying something, but he could only heard her first sentence – 'He is dying'. Athos knew that she was asking for his advice. He had to decide if they would torture their little brother, hoping against hope to save him. He watched d'Artagnan's ashen face, seeing the slightly blue tinge of his lips. He felt betrayed by Louise's question. Aramis would never hesitate.  
  
'Do whatever you need to save him. I won't blame you if he dies, as long as you do EVERYTHING to save him!' Porthos voice sounded clear in the silence, interrupted only by d'Artagnan's struggled breathing.  
  
_'There is nothing I can do.' The physician's words killed all hope. Athos came near to Porthos, who was staring at Aramis laying on the surgeon's table. He wanted to offer some kind of comfort to his brother, but Porthos drew his pistol and aimed at the medic. 'Don't try to give up on my brother.'_  
  
The strength of the memory made Athos to glance at Porthos, hoping that he was not threatening Louise with any weapon. He was not. There was no need, as the woman nodded in understanding.  
  
'I will need your help,' she said. She ordered Claire to bring several herbs. Athos positioned himself near boy's head, gently stroking his hair, being careful not to touch the lump. He whispered meaningless platitudes, wanting his protégé to know that he was not alone. Maybe he should have helped Louise in washing down the blood and dirt from d'Artagnan's body but she did not ask for help. Athos realized that he was so focused on boy wanting him to live, that only a direct order might have made him to do something else. That came sometime later.

Hold him down!" Louise ordered. She made a hasty sign of cross over her patient, and poured wine on the wound in boy's side. There was no reaction. It scared Athos, but he was also grateful for it. His reprieve was short-lived. When Louise started to dig into the wound, the boy whimpered. He tried to move away from the pain, but his musketeer brothers did not allow him to. Athos did not exactly see what Louise had done, but it drew a pained scream from his youngest brother. His eyes flew open, full of fear.  
  
'T's… it hurts!' he managed to pant and then he screamed. Athos felt as his if soul was piercing, his heart shattering.  
  
'P'l's At's f'rgive…' d'Artagnan whined as Louise reduced the pressure on the wound.  
  
'There is nothing to forgive, d'Artagnan. I know it hurts. Hang in-please! Don't leave me! Please fight for me!' Athos pleaded.  
  
Foggy hazel eyes met his own. A silent plea.  
  
'No! You will survive!' ordered the older musketeer, unaware that unchecked tears were flowing down his face.  
  
'Listen to him lad- he is in command.' Porthos' voice was shaking a little.  
  
Athos wanted to give him a glance of gratitude but he could not break away from his protégé's eyes. What if he was seeing them open for the last time?  
  
The boy shuddered and screamed one more time when Louise struggled to dig out the bullet. His scream ended with a wet cough and Athos was devastated when he saw a few drops of blood on d'Artagnan's lips. He knew he should show it to Louise. Their fight was over. The boy was beyond help. His eyes met with Porthos' tearful gaze. The big man slightly shook his head.  
  
'L't me go…' -a barely audible whisper.  
  
'No!' – both musketeers reacted together. They were trained to fight till the end,even without any hope.   
  
D'Artagnan screamed once more and then went silent. His eyes closed, tears on his lashes and cheeks.  
Before any of musketeers could check, they heard Claire's voice. 'He only passed out. It's better for him.'  
  
Claire was standing near Louise. In one hand she was holding a candle. The other hand was wrapped around the boy's wrist.  
  
Louise finished draining the wound. She put some leaves inside it and bandaged it. 'I won't sew it now. It is too infected,' she explained. Then she moved to take care of boy's other injuries. Athos was sure she saw the blood on boy's lips, but she did not comment on it. Maybe because it was too obvious, or maybe she was too exhausted. Athos did not know. The only thing he knew was that he was pleading with d'Artagnan to live- begging him as he had never begged anyone in his whole life. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV (sorry, I am not good at summaries). Angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta. You’re really awesome.  
> Special thanks to Blackie-Noir for Spanish. Your kindness is outstanding. (Yep, this time I have a native's not Google's Spanish :)))) )

Aramis  
  
_He still could feel her touch on his skin._  
  
_However, he could not remember her whispers of desire and need. He could only hear her agonizing screams as the whip cut her back. His Queen. Humiliated, condemned. Her eyes were full of pain and shame. She hadn't meet his gaze when they put the noose on her neck, bitter tears flowing down her bruised face. He bowed his head when he saw Athos. His lieutenant faced the gallows with a stoic face. His eyes were sad, but when they locked with Aramis', there was a bitter accusation there._  
  
_'Es culpa mia*' Aramis acknowledged, bowing his head._  
  
_'You did it to us!' The anger in Porthos' voice was obvious. Only his youngest brother did not believe in his guilt. D'Artagnan was so completely sure that they were all innocent victims of an enemy plot. The boy would not have a chance to change his mind, because he would die that morning. He would die believing he was paying the ultimate price for his country - not for his brother's disloyalty._  
  
_The trapdoor sprang open. Anne flung in the air in a desperate and hopeless fight for her life._  
  
'No!!! Ella no!!!**'- Aramis yelled. Why was he still alive? Why could he still breathe? It was unjust. He should have died and the others- they should have lived. His sweet Anne…   
  
He felt something warm wrapping around him. He could hear a familiar voice. He did not recognize the words. He could not bear the comfort.   
  
'Queiro morir… por favor…***' – he begged. He did not have the strength in him to fight. He allowed himself to be rocked, although he knew he did not deserve it.   
  
_Christine smiled at him gently, inviting him to her apartment in Paris. Her husband's apartment. She was beautiful. She was not Anne, but she could be his without much danger for them. The fire danced in her eyes. He kissed her hard, and she answered--but then when they fell apart, she laughed merrily. 'I thought that you'd like to eat something, as you've just returned from your mission. But you are so... direct in your desire'._    
  
_Christine begging for death. Christine bleeding slowly in his arms. They had lied to Allancourt. None of them could be sure whose child Christine was carrying. But it did not change anything. It did not save Christine - or the child._  
  
_'She died claiming she loved you.' A grey stone covered Adele's body. He missed her voice. Although first, he had seduced her - and she was the Cardinal's lover._  
  
He was a danger. He should be eliminated.   
  
_The warmth disappeared. He was alone. He was alone in the snow, the cold seeping deep into his bones._  
_'No me abandones…' *** His heart cried the words, but his mind knew he deserved it. He deserved to be left behind. He should have died in Savoy. Marsac was right - he had betrayed them all. He had betrayed their memory._    
  
A scream pierced his soul. It tried to tear his heart out. Aramis struggled to get up. He had to see what was going on, as he knew who was screaming. D'Artagnan. He had sworn to protect the boy. Another oath to be broken, another life to be taken. His youngest brother was being tortured. Tortured because of him.  
  
'Tómame a mí en su lugar!*** he cried. Nobody seemed to listen to him. There was another scream-and another. Aramis was struggling to get to his feet. He was not shackled, which surprised him. However, it made no difference, as he found himself too weak to stand up.  
  
'Don't die. Don't leave me. I will not allow you to die' – a gentle whisper.  
  
Aramis sighed with relief. So he was indeed dying. That was good. His brothers would be better without him. They would live. They would love Anne in the way it was allowed and required.   
  
However, something was strange in this whole situation. He could not feel anyone touching him. Even Athos, who was definitely not a tactile person, knew that a wounded Aramis needed to feel the touch of another human. If he was pleading with the younger musketeer to live, he would hold his hand. The Spaniard felt a freezing fear clasp his heart. He had been wrong--he was not the one who was dying. That thought spurred him to action.   
  
He opened his eyes. The candlelight hurt him. However, it did not cause his resolve to waver. He sat up slowly, giving himself time to adjust to the new position as the flame tried to consume his side and his head. But he had to get up. There was his brother, and he needed medical help.  
  
He spent several minutes sitting with his head bowed, listening to Athos' restless pleas. Finally, Aramis reached for the wall, and slowly got up by leaning onto it. Blackness threatened to engulf him, but eventually he could once more see the dim room. Somebody was lying on the table. He could discern the shapes of Porthos and Athos, which meant… d'Artagnan! He heard the boy screaming. Aramis summoned all his strength and pushed away from the wall. He started to walk towards the table, totally focused on it. He stumbled, and moaned in pain as he tried to regain his balance. He was losing his fight to remain standing when Porthos' arms wrapped around him.  
  
'Aramis! You should lie down.' he sounded panicked.  
  
'Lo siento.' ***– he mumbled, allowing Porthos to take all his weight.  
  
'Speak French, my friend,' muttered Porthos.  
  
'It's my fault! How is he?' Aramis tried to focus.  
  
'It is not your fault! Did you shoot him? No, you didn't!' growled Porthos. 'Yes, he is in bad shape--but you are not to blame! Do you understand me?' He took his Aramis' face in his hands, looking him straight in the eye.  
  
The Spaniard did not answer. He was leaning heavily into his brother, seeking the support and comfort which he knew he should have been denied. 'I want to see his wounds,' he said. Porthos only nodded, and helped him to the table. Aramis could see two women. The younger one was crushing some plants in a pestle. The older woman gave a cup to Athos, who started to drip the liquid into d'Artagnan's mouth.  
  
She looked at Aramis. 'I would appreciate your help, Monsieur, as long as you don't put your own health at risk.'  
  
Aramis heard Porthos saying something. He tried to concentrate, but his vision was blurring. He felt so hot.   
  
'What have you given him?' he managed to ask the woman.  
  
'Coneflower, fleawort, yarrow, thyme…' she hesitated, then cautiously eyed Aramis. He did not like the look she was giving him. 'And-- Devil's snare.'  
  
Poison. She had given him poison in an attempt to save his life. No herbwoman decided to use that unless the condition of the patient was critical. He sighed, too deeply for his sore ribs.  
  
'Lavender oil? Calendula oil?' he asked. Frantically, he tried to remember all the remedies against infection he knew. He was not sure how long he would remain conscious, and he knew that he had to save d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan was the only thing standing between him and his own doom.   
  
'No, Monsieur. They are… too expensive,' answered the village healer, slightly ashamed.  
  
'Porthos!' – It seemed odd that it was taking Aramis an incredibly long time to find his friend in this small room. 'My saddlebags?'  
  
It was not Porthos who replied. 'At the bedside. Orage found me,' Athos said, not looking at him. 'Louise  ' – he did not have to finish his question, as the healer had already stood up to retrieve the required supplies.  
  
She uncovered the wound, and Aramis winced at the sight. He glanced at Athos to make certain that his leader would allow him to care for his young protégé. It was his fault, after all, that d'Artagnan was lying here.  
  
Athos' lack of reaction meant that he had given permission. His hand were shaking slightly as he gently applied herbs and oils to the wound. When he finished, he took one step back and collapsed on his knees. He tried to pray. However, the only plea to God which left his feverish lips was 'Tómame a mí en su lugar!***'  
  
*It's my fault  
**Not her  
*** I want to die  
*** Don't leave me.  
*** Take me not him.  
***I am sorry


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musketeers in the eye of the stranger - Louise POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely grateful to Riversidewren for beta-ing.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your kind reviews.

Louise

  
She gave another cup of tea to the musketeer sitting at her table. For a moment, she could even believe that she was just offering a beverage to a guest. There was no inn in the neighborhood, so from time to time, a traveler sought shelter in their village.   
  
But not that day. That day, a dying musketeer lay on her kitchen table, and the tea was a desperate attempt to save his life. Louise touched his face for a moment. His fever was spiking, and the kid's skin was so dry. His older brother and leader - Athos - lifted his head and watched Louise intently. It was strange that he pulled his gaze away from the boy's face. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something.  
  
She had nothing to say to comfort him but lies, and she felt too much respect for him to do that. 'Make him drink it,' she ordered, although she gave her voice a soft edge. The man in front of her needed hope - and she had none to offer.   
  
The kid whimpered softly.  
  
'D'Artagnan?' Athos gently brushed away hair from the lad's face. The boy opened his eyes, but they were glassy and unfocused. Full of fear. He must have whispered something, because Athos inclined his head slightly toward him.  
  
'I'm here', he said. 'Don't leave me, lad. I… need you. Please, fight,' he murmured softly.   
  
Louise bit her lip. She was sure that the wounded musketeer was still searching for his brother in his mind, unaware of his presence. The boy gave a shattered sigh and Louise froze, waiting for him to inhale. She saw Athos become deathly pale.  
  
'D'Artagnan?!' There was so much panic in his voice. He clutched the boy's arm as if it were a lifeline - and Louise realized with horror that he was indeed his lifeline. The kid would take this man with him if he died. It was only a matter of time. The big one - Porthos - was suddenly close to them. 'No, no!' Utter denial was in his voice. 'D'Artagnan, you have to fight!'   
  
'Tómame a mí en su lugar!' desperately cried the one with medical knowledge - Aramis. But he remained where he was, on his knees. Louise guessed he did not have enough strength to get up.  
  
The healer felt so helpless. Finally, D'Artagnan inhaled slightly. Athos bowed his head and gently kissed the boy's forehead. Porthos swore with relief, and Louise wanted to scold him for his behavior, but remained silent.   
  
Aramis chose that moment to collapse. She jumped at him, together with the dark skinned musketeer. She checked on him. He was alive, but far too hot for her liking. Porthos gently took him in his arms and laid him down on the bed.  
  
'What was he shouting?' asked Louise.  
  
'He was speaking Spanish. We can't understand it,' replied Porthos, taking the bowl of cold water she handed him. 'How is he, Madame?' he asked.  
  
'The fever still has to break,' she answered. 'This whole situation isn't helping him.' She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling so tired.  
  
It had been two days. It seemed like ages, but it had been only two days ago when her sister had led two wounded musketeers to her house. While one of them had required only some stitches and rest, the other one had been seriously wounded, and she had been afraid he would not wake up. Luckily, he had woken up, and he knew who he was. But in the meantime, their leader had brought in another wounded one, in worse condition. She did not understand why he was deteriorating so fast, especially since she had successfully cleaned his wounds, and the infection seemed to be responding to her herbs. Then she remembered the murdered woman. She inhaled sharply.  
  
'W't is it?' asked Porthos anxiously.  
  
'He loved her.' It was a statement, not a question. 'The guilt is killing him.'  
  
'I told 'im 'e is not to blame!' growled Porthos, shaken by her statement.  
  
'Did he believe you?' she asked sadly. "I'll prepare another medication for him. I will trust you to give it to him. I must check on the kid.'  
  
The kid. She was astonished that he was still alive. She had been quite convinced he would not survive the surgery. She had some experience with digging out sticks, or even pieces of metal, from wounds, but never before had she dealt with a gunshot. She was afraid that she had inflicted further damage, as the boy had started coughing up blood when she was searching for the bullet inside him. Although she knew that the boy had already been on the brink of death, she could not stop asking herself if she had killed him.   
  
What was the bond between these men? She watched Athos restlessly sitting by the boy as he fought for his life, and Porthos coaxing Aramis to drink. She knew what it was like to hold a vigil at a brother's deathbed. She had lost her younger brother to a fever. But she had survived. These men would not even try.  
  
'Pater noster, Qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen Tuum.' She began to pray, searching in her memory for Latin words, but then gave up. Ashamed, she switched to French.  
  
Claire brought bread, cheese and broth. Outside, it was a foggy day.  
  
'Uncle is outside. He needs your help,' the girl said.  
  
Louise stormed out. What could be going on that he did not come inside the house?! Her husband was waiting for her outside. He looked fine, although worried.  
  
'There is a search going on for our guests,' he said.   
  
'What do you mean? They are musketeers! You think they are outlaws?' she asked, suddenly scared. Helping bandits could end in a noose.  
  
'No, calm down.' He cradled her in his arms. She leaned into him, hiding her face in his arms. 'I am sure they are King's Musketeers, but the bandits who attacked them are looking for them. They talked to Antoinette. They threatened her. They want the one called Aramis, or they'll come here.'  
  
'I will not give up my patient!' Louise was furious, but she knew that Jean would never ask her to do that. 'His condition is grave. I am afraid that we will have to dig four graves! The youngest one… he won't last long and the others…,' she began to mumble when stress overcame her.  
  
'Louise.' Jean gently kissed her hair. 'Talk to them. I had hoped that we could take them somewhere and hide them, but I guess they can't be moved. They are soldiers - they should have an idea!'  
  
'Yes… the simplest thing would be to tell Aramis that they want him. He'll give up.' She was frustrated and scared. She did not want to endanger their village, but she could not betray the musketeers. She allowed herself a moment of weakness in Jean's arms before she pulled away and went back into the house.  
  
She hesitated only for a moment. Porthos looked more aware than Athos. She hoped he would find a way to talk to his leader, who was completely focused on his youngest brother. Brother? She shook her head. They do not seemed to be related by blood. But did it matter?  
  
'Monsieur Porthos.' She approached him. 'We have to talk. Outside.' She did not want to risk Aramis overhearing their conversation.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question of defense. Porthos POV.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am grateful to my awesome beta – Riversidewren.  
> Thank you for all your reviews. Thank you for following this story. It means much to me.

Porthos   
  
He reluctantly left Aramis after placing a cold rag on his forehead, and glanced towards Athos.  
'Why don't we make them more comfortable, and lay the lad down 'ere?'  
  
Louise seemed to consider it for a moment before she nodded her agreement. 'Be gentle'.  
  
Porthos snorted. He did not need to be reminded to be careful with his wounded brother. Louise must have understood his reaction, because a shadow of a smile ghosted her lips.   
  
Porthos glanced towards Athos. To his surprise, his leader seemed to follow their conversation, and stood up. However, Athos had no idea that Porthos was thinking about his comfort, as well as d'Artagnan's.  
  
They moved their precious burden close to Aramis. The Gascon whimpered softly when they laid him down. He moved slightly, as though searching for something. He settled down when Athos took his place near his head and started to stroke his hair.   
  
'He knows that you are here for him!' whispered a surprised Louise.  
  
'It's a good sign, isn't it?' asked Porthos, a glint of hope in his eye.  
  
'It means that he is not in a coma, and that your presence is really important to him,' she replied slowly.  
  
Porthos realized that she was being careful not to give them false hope, and that she was slightly confused by the boy's reactions. However, she did not know d'Artagnan. She did not know how stubborn their pup could be. That was why she had told them he was doomed. Porthos knew his reasoning might be faulty, but he could not keep himself from believing that d'Artagnan would survive.  
  
After making sure that Athos had everything he needed to take care of both of their unconscious brothers, Porthos followed Louise outside. He breathed in the fresh, cold air with relief. It was a nice change after the smell of blood, infection, and herbs which reigned in the house.   
  
'The bandits you fought with--they are coming after you,' Louise explained. She told him everything that she had learned from her husband. He cursed under his breath.  
  
'There is a place we could hide Aramis. I think it wouldn't be too risky for him to take a little ride. But to be honest…,' she hesitated, searching for words. 'Since he is your medic, I prefer to have him here. Moving the boy is out of the question--he needs you all here. And I need Monsieur Aramis' help with him. However, I also need to know that I am not putting my village at risk. That is, not at too much risk.' She corrected herself, eyeing the musketeer expectantly.  
  
Porthos sighed, desperately looking for a good solution. The idea of leaving his ailing brothers here and having to hunt down bandits did not please him. He knew too little about the men searching for them. However, if they were camping in the ruined farms, he could ride there with Athos. He was very reluctant to leave d'Artagnan and Aramis. What if the village was being watched? If so, when they left, the bandits would come for Aramis, who would be defenseless. They had not attacked so far. Maybe after their fight, they had learned to respect musketeers. That would explain why they had DEMANDED Aramis instead of just coming to claim him.   
  
'May I talk to this Antoinette? And to your husband, Madame?' he asked, 'And one more thing, please tell the villagers that if anybody comes asking for us, I want to speak with the person who makes contact with them.'  
  
She nodded. She led him to another house. Porthos felt quite lightheaded. However, he tried focus on assessing the village as a place to be defended. It was not badly situated. After recent rains, the river was quite deep, and was flowing rapidly. The assault was unlikely to come from that direction. Luckily, the rain would prevent any plan for arson. The setting of the village would have given them a good chance if they had been fit to fight. Maybe Aramis would be able to support them with gunfire.   
  
Antoinette was an elderly woman. She gave a detailed description of the man who threatened her, but Porthos did not find it very useful. He was quite sure that the bandit had tried to intimidate the poor woman into convincing the others of the necessity of giving up the wounded soldier. It seemed that Louise was a healer who was held in great esteem. It was doubtful that any of villagers would act against her will.  
  
'Louise is a good girl. She saved so many people after the fire. Only three of them died. She has a gift.' Antoinette was very fond of the herbwoman, 'She offered to teach Claire. After all, the poor child has no chance to get married. At least being a healer will grant her some status.'  
  
Porthos hid his smile. Louise was several years older than him. Listening to someone calling her 'girl' was somewhat amusing.   
  
Antoinette handed him a closed jar. 'I've heard that little brother of yours is very ill. I kept this for special occasions. Maybe it will help him. It's a really good _confiture_ —rose petals and honey. It should help.'  
  
Porthos knew such a jar was very expensive. He felt humbled by her gift. The musketeers were endangering the villagers with their presence, and yet these people were being so nice to them. Their kindness was overwhelming.  
  
'I cannot take it, Madame. I am sure he is under the best care possible. Madame Louise will give him everything he needs.'  
  
'I know. But I also know she doesn't have anything like this. My grandson gave it to me. He is a soldier, just like you.' There was so much pride in her voice.  
  
'That's just one more reason I can't take it. Thank you, but I'm sorry--I must go. My brothers need me.' He bowed slightly and withdrew, feeling awkward. God, how he wished Aramis could have been there--he would have known exactly what to say.  
  
Outside, Louise's husband was waiting for him. Their conversation was short, but Porthos got all the information he needed. He could count on six men who had at least a little knowledge of weapons. Porthos decided to seek Athos' advice.   
  
He returned to his brother and stopped, mortified. Athos was openly sobbing, his face buried on d'Artagnan's arm. Claire looked too terrified to approach the musketeers. Porthos was at his brother's side in a few quick steps.   
  
'Athos?' He placed one hand on Athos' shoulder, the other hand simultaneously reaching for the boy's chest. He felt relieved when he felt a rapid heartbeat.   
  
'Athos?' He focused on his leader, gently shaking him. Athos flinched. He lifted his head, his eyes full of anguish and utter despair.  
  
'Athos, he is alive. It was only a nightmare. D'Artagnan is alive,' Porthos soothed him, his voice gentle. He felt as if he was calming down a wounded horse.   
  
Athos drew a shaky breath, then checked the Gascon for himself. Porthos' heart shattered when he saw Athos bow his head in relief, gently kissing the lad's forehead.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos POV

Athos  
  
Porthos had left a few minutes ago with Louise. Athos was not happy that he had finally given in and exchanged the kitchen stool for a bed. His fatigue was starting to overcome his will to remain awake. He moved slightly, fighting against the sleepiness slowly crawling through his mind. But then suddenly, he was totally aware.   
  
_D'Artagnan moaned softly, his breathing more uneven. Athos bent to him, whispering soothing words. The boy's eyes flew open. He gripped Athos' shirt in a desperate effort to lift himself up. His terrified mentor helped him, his fear becoming something close to panic when he realized that the boy could not inhale properly.  
_  
_'D'Artagnan, breathe with me! Slowly!' he urged, positioning himself so the boy could lean into him. He knew that the lad was doing his best to follow his instructions, but he failed utterly, overcome by a coughing fit. Blood began to seep from his mouth._    
  
_Athos shot a pleading glance towards Louise, but she shook only her head. He turned away, as he could not bear to see the compassion in her eyes. The boy was suffocating in his own blood--in the arms of his leader. Athos cradled him, pleading with him to fight. However, he knew it was futile. D'Artagnan's will did not really matter anymore, because his body was finally betraying him. He could see the panic in the boy's eyes. A silent plea._  
  
_And then his protégé went limp in his arms. The struggle to breathe ceased. There was only silence. Athos wept, feeling as if a part of his soul was leaving him. There was a cold emptiness inside him--the internal cold that he knew well from the time he had watched Thomas bleed to death. The warmth their youngest brother was able to give him was dissipating. He was dead. Athos felt as if his spirit had died with the young Gascon. However, his body had not quite caught up yet._  
  
A distant voice was calling him. Someone wanted him to react. Did that person not see that he was practically a corpse?! Could they not show some respect and just let him fade away?!  
  
A familiar voice was speaking to him. Words sank into his grief. One word made itself audible---'alive'. Someone must have mistaken his breathing for a sign of life. He began to feel warm hands on his arms. He could not avoid it any longer.  
  
'D'Artagnan is alive.'  
  
A beautiful dream. A lie.   
  
Something was odd. He was sure he had been cradling the boy in his arms-- but now he was only kneeling on the floor, his face buried in D'Artagnan arm. He lifted his head abruptly, and then his hand flew to find the Gascon's chest. He felt the reassuring heartbeat. He bowed his head and gently kissed the boy's forehead. There was some sweat on his skin.  
  
Athos let Porthos lead him outside, his brother supporting most of his weight. Porthos propped his leader against the wall of the house, then splashed some fresh rainwater from the bucket directly on Athos' face. It felt good. The older musketeer accepted what he thought was a cup of water-- but it was not water. He felt somewhat betrayed by a bitter herbal taste.   
  
Porthos shrugged, giving him a brief smile that was empty of emotion.  
  
'You're somewhat feverish. Despite what you may think, Louise is not longing for another patient.'  
  
Athos acknowledged him with a nod. 'What's going on?' he asked slowly, finally meeting Porthos' eyes.  
  
The dark skinned musketeer shared with him all the information he had managed to gather.   
  
'We can't stay here,' Athos declared.  
  
'And we can't move d'Artagnan-- or leave him,' replied Porthos practically.  
  
Athos leaned his head back against the wall of the house. The wet cold gave him some relief.  
  
'You're right. We have convinced them that taking Aramis is a bad idea. We'll let them come to us. We only need a one-minute warning--and any information Aramis can give us.'  
  
Athos was not sure if his plan would work, but for the moment, he had no other ideas.  
  
'Athos, 're you sure it's a good idea to tell Aramis everything? 'e may try something stupid. The healer said that the guilt is consuming 'im.'  
  
'I need to know how much of a danger the bandits are to the villagers,' answered Athos stubbornly.  
  
He knew that his plan was very risky, but as long as the musketeers would be the only possible casualties, the risk was acceptable. The bad thing was that they had to wait for the enemy's next move. He hoped Aramis would be able to shed some light on the identity of bandits. He guessed they were mercenaries, as they fought quite well. Treville should receive his message the next day if everything went well. If the captain decided to send any men, they would need two days to reach the village.   
  
Athos had not directly asked for help in his letter, so he could not be sure if any reinforcements would come. If only they could move d'Artagnan! Then they could find shelter anywhere- even in that accursed church!  
  
A ride on horseback was out of the question, but maybe it would be possible to move to another house? Athos pointed to one of the houses, which lay the farthest outside the village.  
  
'Maybe we can move there?' Porthos had read Athos' mind.  
  
The older musketeer nodded slightly. Despite his reluctance to be away from d'Artagnan for any length of time, he knew he needed to get acquainted with the villagers if they were going to have to defend themselves here. Porthos decided to accompany him. This was good, because then they could share their impressions of the local people.  
  
Athos was grateful that the fresh air seemed to sober him up a little. He felt as if he had a hangover, although the last time he really drank much, it had been at the garrison, the evening before their mission. He hoped that the next time they would drink, it would be in order to celebrate their recovery--not a futile attempt to escape the grief of their brother's death.   
  
Athos forced himself to work on his plan. They needed four men and a cart. The rainy weather seemed to be their ally now. However, he was afraid that the bandits would first shoot the villagers, only realizing too late that their victims were not the people for whom they were searching. However, the most important question was why they had not yet attacked.  
  
He thought about the unknown messenger who had left him a note telling him where to find Aramis. It was now finally clear it had not been a trap. Someone had wanted Aramis to be saved. But why? He had too little information. He sighed in frustration.  
  
'We'll need a cart, four volunteers, and pig blood. And ask about that house. It would be helpful to move there,' he said finally, answering Porthos' silent question.  
  
The dark skinned musketeer nodded. He wanted to say something, but at that moment, they heard Aramis shouting. 'Athos!'. There was an unmistakable urgency in his voice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing and for wise advice :)
> 
> Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing and Blackie-Noir for Spanish.  
> Thanks to all readers and reviewers.

Aramis

  
_He dodged the blade and feigned an attack, looking for a gap in his enemy's defense. He lunged forward when he saw the opportunity. He could see the amazement in his opponent's eyes when the rapier pierced his body. Aramis stood still for a moment, then his knees buckled. His hand wanted to make the sign of the cross, and his lips searched for words of prayer. But he could not pray. He watched as the Duke's blood colored the snow. Turning his head, he saw Athos motionless in the pool of red. The Duke had managed to steal all his friends away from him. There was no one left. The Spaniard curled up near his fallen brother._  
  
_'Háblame. Te lo suplico,' he whispered, burying his face in Athos' hand._  
  
_Crows. They were singing their song of doom. He could not allow them to eat his brothers' eyes. He came closer, and saw the bevy of birds feasting on a lean shape hanging on the tree branch. A feminine shape._  
  
_He broke into a run, only to stop a few steps from her. He could not recognize her mutilated face. He could recognize a small scar on her hand. Isabelle had this scar. He could recognize the fair Adele's hair. He could recognize Christine's ring. He could recognize Anne's necklace. He sank on his knees._    
  
_He was on his knees. His hands were bound. He saw d'Artagnan being whipped. He knew it was his fault, and his alone. He had asked the boy to convey a message. And now his little brother was paying for Aramis' dalliances. The young Gascon tried so hard to remain silent, but now from time to time, Aramis could hear a low moan as the whip cut into fresh welts._  
  
_There was so much snow. He was freezing. He still cradled d'Artagnan in his arms. D'Artagnan, who was desperately calling for Athos. Athos, who lay dead a few steps away, murdered by the Duke of Savoy. The man had finally taken his revenge for losing the duel to Athos at the palace._  
  
_'Estoy aquí,' he lied, gently cradling the boy. 'Estoy aqui…,' he whispered, his lips touching the boy's hair._  
  
_'T's?' D'Artagnan was not easy to fool._  
  
_‘¡Aguanta. Estoy aquí, no te abandonaré,' he swore in a broken voice._  
  
_His younger brother seemed not to understand, still pleading for Athos, his breath hitching.  
_  
_Aramis was lost. He knew he should try to save the boy's life, but he was too weak to move. He was not even sure if it was because of wounds or grief. He remembered Porthos' head exploding as if it was a birthday melon. He had shot his brother's murderer, but he was too late. The dead men in the snow of Savoy were calling to him. Consumed by guilt, he could not resist their call.  
_  
_'¡Respira!' he repeated. He could not just let the boy slip away without a fight!  
_  
He felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He was so thirsty. He drank greedily. The snow was fading away, but d'Artagnan voice was not.   
  
Aramis opened his eyes. A young girl, a child, was watching him intently. He spotted the cup in her hands. He cast a longing glance at it. She filled the cup with another mixture and gave it to him. It was awful, but he felt somewhat more lucid.   
  
He started to remember.   
  
_A church._  
Allancourt.  
Christine. Christine pleading for death.  
D'Artagnan dying on the table.  
  
D'Artagnan?!   
  
He frantically searched for the boy. The kitchen table- the only table here- was empty.  
.  
'D'Artagnan?' he choked.  
  
The girl gestured towards the boy lying near Aramis.   
  
'Athos? Porthos?' he asked nervously.  
  
'They needed a break,' she replied gently.  
  
The boy gave out a pained whine. Aramis touched his cheek and winced. The boy was still burning up.   
  
Aramis tried to sit in a more comfortable position. He took the rag from the girl's hand and gently started to wipe the lad's face. However, instead of calming down, the Gascon became more agitated. He begged for Athos. Aramis cradled him in his arms, trying to give him as much comfort as he could.  
  
The lad opened his eyes, unfocused and bright from the fever. He was chasing shadows in the room. Aramis moved his hand slowly in front of d'Artagnan's face. To his relief, the pupils reacted to the change of light However, his brother did not.  
  
D'Artagnan grasped the bandages on Aramis' chest. The Spaniard bit his lips in order to not cry out from the pain. He saw the girl wanting to intervene, but he gestured to her to remain where she was. He did not trust his voice. However, his brother might need to hear it. Aramis gave out a strained whisper. 'D'Artagnan?'  
  
The boy started to panic.  
  
'¡Respira! D' Artagnan! ¡Respira!' He repeated it like a prayer. The boy's panic seemed to be contagious.  
  
'Athos!!' – he called urgently.  
  
The boy went totally still. His eyes for a moment fixed on a point above Aramis' arm. He held his breath, and Aramis felt his heart in his mouth.  
  
'Athos!' He cried louder. Pain was exploding in his chest. He started to cough. He wanted to curl up to escape the pain, but with d'Artagnan cradled in his arms, it was out of the question.   
  
Athos and Porthos stormed into the house. Athos' face paled as he caught his protégé in his arms. The boy immediately loosened his grip on Aramis and clutched Athos' shirt, burying his face in his mentor's chest. Aramis backed up a little, but did not move too far away, careful not to break his physical contact with the boy. After he caught his breath, he started to repeat his former plea.  
  
'Aramis, you know 'e doesn't know Spanish?' Porthos voice was worried, but he patted the marksman's arm lightly.   
  
'Spanish? Am I… lo siento…,' murmured Aramis.  
  
'Aramis, look at me.' Porthos cupped his face. 'Do you know who took you and why?' he asked cautiously.  
  
Aramis could feel his guilt choking him.  
  
'I slept with his wife. He killed her…. Vicomte Allancour.'  
  
'He's a Comte now,' commented Athos, still rocking d'Artagnan. 'His older brother – the comte had a hunting accident last month.'  
  
Aramis considered that information for a moment. It should not make any difference. Should it?  
  
'Does this explain why they also took d'Artagnan? Is there any connection?' Porthos asked.  
  
"Not that I know of,' replied Aramis. He had not the slightest idea. He was sure Christine had met Porthos once, but she had never met d'Artagnan.   
  
'This Allancourt--he likes to kill innocent people?' asked Porthos.  
  
'Christine was innocent!' snapped Aramis, suddenly furious at his brother.  
  
'Answer the question!' interrupted harshly Athos harshly.  
  
'Yes… however, his men are mercenaries. One of them wanted to help me--to help Christine… where is she?' He looked at Athos accusingly.  
  
'Here. We'll have to bury her,' answered Athos.  
  
'I want to see her,' Aramis declared.  
  
'No!!' growled Porthos. Athos supported him with a slight nod.  
  
Aramis saw his brothers look at each other. There were hiding something from him--something important. If only he was not so tired! But then the medic in him woke up.  
  
'The boy is semi-conscious. We should take advantage of the chance to get him to drink.' The order in his voice was unmistakable. Claire handed Porthos a cup of herbal tea. Athos shifted his position slightly in order to have access to the lad's mouth, and ordered him to drink. Aramis was glad to see that an order was enough--an order from Athos, of course.  
  
'I don't think Allancourt is still here. He needs luxury.' Aramis had found the strength to speak. He was not hungry. but accepted a bowl of broth from Claire. His hand was shaking badly, but he ignored Porthos. who clearly wanted to help him.  
  
'A scarred blond helped you?' Athos asked unexpectedly.  
  
'Yes…'  
  
'And that tells us absolutely nothing.' He was so frustrated.

 

‘Háblame. Te lo suplico.’ – Talk to me. I beg you.

‘Estoy aquí’ – I’m here

‘¡Aguanta. Estoy aquí, no te abandonaré’ – Fight! I’m here. I won’t leave you.

‘¡Respira!’ - Breathe

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little surprise - d'Artagnan's POV. Some hope...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you for being so kind and understanding beta :)

D'Artagnan  
  
Pain. There was nothing but pain. A pain that reigned in the darkness. A pain that was erasing the last traces of him. He was ceasing to exist.   
  
There was a sound. A murmur. A thing which did not belong to the pain. A thing which reached him. It allowed him to focus. To be.   
  
The pain was still trying to suffocate him. The darkness became too hot to bear it, and in the meantime, ice was building inside him. He remembered vaguely a name related to the voice.   
  
He kept repeating it as a prayer. He could feel something. That feeling was not hurting him. A wonderful coolness in the hotness. The coolness which was changing into a glowing warmth, dissipating the internal ice.   
  
That marvel sometimes disappeared. He could not withhold his protest – his plea. If it was taken for too long from him, he would not last.   
  
And in that moment he wanted to be. Because of the sound, because of the touch. He needed the reassurance that there was something more than hot agony.   
  
It was so simple to give in to it. It made it so hard to breathe. However, something told him that if he let himself succumb, the sweet promise given by the coolness would be lost eternally.  
  
He could not remember exactly what was that promise about, but he somehow knew it was worth every effort to reach it.   
  
Suddenly, the voice was gone. It hurt so much. The bitterness of betrayal. The bitterness of loneliness. The cold. The fear. The pain.   
  
He wanted to scream, to plead. Then it gave something. Not exactly what he was asking for, but he could hear a voice. It sounded different, but it was there. He could finally also feel the touch. But it was so different. Somewhat familiar but… not sufficient.   
  
He pleaded, using the only word he remembered. He felt he was slipping into blackness. He inhaled its bitter taste. He frantically tried to escape from it. He wanted to get rid of the cold which was beginning to freeze him.   
  
He cried desperately for help. He begged for it, frantically clutching on to something. He tried to open his eyes, but there were only dancing shadows, and the sky was on fire.   
  
He was shielded from that inferno, but the shield was not enough to resist the call of the blackness. Suddenly, he knew the name of that shield. He wanted to use it, but he could not breathe. He was suffocating. The fire was consuming him.   
  
He was shifted into a different position. At the same time, he could hear his shield calling the NAME. The right name.   
  
He stilled in anticipation. He tried to focus his vision. He wanted to see his savior.   
  
The shield was murmuring something urgently. He did not recognize the words.   
  
Then there was another shout. Some panic in it? He was not sure. He discovered that he could lean into the shield, who was supporting him.   
  
What exactly did the shield want from him? He repeated frantically one-- no two-- words. D’Artagnan was too tired to think.  
  
And then suddenly his lifeline appeared. The voice. The soothing touch. He allowed himself to inhale softly the familiar scent. The scent of safety. The scent of light. The scent of hope.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing :)

Athos  
  
He thought his heart would break when he saw Aramis holding d'Artagnan in his arms exactly the same way he had done in his dream. In the dim light, he could not discern if there was blood on the boy's lips. He could understand Aramis' pleading tone of voice, but the words were in Spanish. He still could feel the shadow of that panic in him. Even now, when he was discussing his plans with his brothers.  
  
"You want them to think I am dying?" asked Aramis.  
  
Porthos cast a furious glance at Athos.  
  
"What about d'Artagnan? After all, they tried to take him, but weren't they afraid of Allancourt's reaction when they failed?" Aramis was trying to speak clearly, but fever was still consuming him.  
  
"I prefer not to drown him in pig blood", said Porthos. Athos shot him a glance full of gratitude.  
  
"I cannot guarantee you pig blood," broke in Louise, "but I can give you bird blood." She brought in a tray of food, then placed it on the bed and scowled at the musketeers.  
  
"You will eat now," she declared. Her tone made it clear that there was no room for discussion. Aramis seemed to doze off.   
  
Louise gestured toward Aramis. "Monsieur, I ask you to wake your friend and make him eat. His body needs the strength to fight his fever."  
  
Porthos obeyed, ignoring his brother's sleepy protests. Athos watched them for a moment. Finally, Porthos coaxed Aramis to eat some bread.   
  
Athos had the impression that the Spaniard wanted to say something, but eventually decided against it. This made Athos uneasy. He knew he should question his brother, but he was too tired.  
  
"T's?" Something in d'Artagnan's voice made Athos pull the boy away a bit from his chest so he could manage to look into his face. He was rewarded by the sight of the lad's half-open eyes. Athos was not sure if the boy could see him. However, he did allow himself to feel some hope.  
  
"T's?" the lad repeated.  
  
"Yes, it's me. How do you feel?"  
  
"H't, c'ld, h'rts," he mumbled, but all that Athos could feel was an immense relief.  
  
"You'll be fine. You are injured and ill, but you'll be fine," whispered Athos.  
  
"N't angr'?" The boy sounded so young and shy. Athos' heart nearly broke.  
  
"D'Artagnan, I am not angry with you." He spoke gently, and the boy's lips curled in a light smile--so timid, but true.  
  
"Make him drink it." Louise handed him a cup of herbal tea.  
  
"D'Artagnan, drink. It will help you." Athos gently touched the cup to the boy's lips. The lad drank greedily, but then winced when he began to taste the bitterness of the mixture.  
  
"T's?" The boy evidently needed his mentor's attention. Athos eyed him worriedly, silently pleading that the boy would not ask him to bury him. He did not know how he would keep his composure were he to face a question like that.  
  
"They... w'nt me. A plan. Tried to buy me once."  
  
Athos smiled fondly. He could not help feeling proud of his protégé.   
  
The brother in him wanted to comfort the lad immediately, but the soldier in him needed information.  
  
He gently cupped the boy's face with his hand. "Do you know how many of them there are?"  
  
"Maybe... six to ten..."  
  
Athos thought about the camp he had found. This number made sense.  
  
"The Louvre's tunnels." The boy was fighting against sleep.  
  
"You are our priceless boy. You just gave us what we needed!" laughed Porthos warmly. There was so much relief in his voice. Athos shared the same feeling as he saw their youngest brother somewhat lucid. Then the older musketeer's attention was drawn to the pure confusion on d'Artagnan's face.  
  
"Wh't?" the lad asked. He was falling asleep.  
  
"Just happy you're with us," replied Porthos. "Go to sleep."  
  
D'Artagnan obeyed, still using Athos as a pillow.  
  
"It doesn't make sense. There many people who know them better than he does," said Athos, once he was sure that d'Artagnan was asleep.  
  
"I guess they wanted to verify if they really bought him," replied Porthos. "I don't think it had anything to do with Aramis. What do you know about this Allancourt?"  
  
"Nothing. I have never met him. I did see his older brother a few times at the Palace. Once he was on a hunting trip of the King's that we escorted. He was entertaining the King with stories about hunting dogs."  
  
"I met his wife once in Paris. She was visiting her sister, Marianne. I don't know her name. She is married. However, this doesn't give us any information," replied Porthos bitterly.  
  
"What is important is that Jacques Allancourt died a childless widower, and his younger brother has inherited the title." Athos sighed, and glanced at the boy sleeping in his arms. "I have no idea why he wanted anything from d'Artagnan."  
  
"I want to go do some reconnaissance." Porthos looked for his leader's approval.  
  
Athos nodded his agreement.  
  
"Monsieur, may I ask for your help before you go?" They glanced at Louise. They nearly had forgotten the woman's presence.  
  
"What can I do for you, Madame?" Porthos stood up.  
  
"I need to check his wound." She gestured towards d'Artagnan. She did not have to add that it would be painful.   
  
Athos and Porthos worked together to give Louise the best access to their brother's wound. The boy protested softly.  
  
"We need to change your bandages. I have to be truthful--it will hurt," Athos said, stroking the boy's sweaty hair. He wanted so badly to protect the lad from pain.   
  
D'Artagnan buried his face in his mentor's hand. Athos gave Louise a slight nod. She inspected the wound carefully. Athos watched her intently, searching for answers to the question he dared not ask.  
  
"It's clearing," she said. After a moment, she added, "I hope he is stronger than the fever."  
  
"So it means he's better? Will 'e be alright?" Athos could trust Porthos to ask the difficult questions for him.  
  
Louise eyed the dark skinned musketeer carefully.  
  
"He is better," she said slowly, "but his fever still has to break. He is not out of the woods yet." She gently touched his forehead. "You still have to fight, kid," she said softly.   
  
At that moment, Athos knew that his protégé had found his way into the herbwoman's heart. And he was not surprised.   
  
Louise put another poultice on the wound and dressed it.   
  
D'Artagnan remained quiet during the whole procedure, but Athos felt how stiff the boy became, and how strongly he leaned into his mentor.  
  
"Hush, it's nearly over," Athos whispered. The boy pulled his face away, although his hands were still gripping Athos'.  
  
"W'ter?" he pleaded. It seemed so wrong to hear him pleading!   
  
Athos gave him water with honey. A smiled ghosted in his eyes when he saw d'Artagnan's surprise at the sweet taste. The boy must have been sure he would be given another bitter herbal tea.  
  
After he drank, his brothers made him as comfortable as they could. The boy was still leaning into Athos.   
  
Athos claimed it was because that position made the boy's breathing easier. Of course it was true, but Athos needed the contact with the boy as much as his protégé needed the contact with him. The younger musketeer was still too hot, but Athos' heart was full of hope.   
  
"I'm leaving." Porthos took his weapon. He made sure that Athos had his pistol within reach.  
  
"Be careful," ordered Athos. "Avoid any contact."  
  
Porthos rolled his eyes. "I'm the most careful of all of us!" he declared with an accusing glare.   
  
Athos lifted an eyebrow in mock astonishment. He knew that his friend was right. He nodded slightly.  
  
"I just need you fit in case we have to fight," he said dryly, and watched Porthos leave.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing and constant support :)  
> Blackie-Noir, thank you for Spanish words :)

Aramis  
  
Athos and Louise finally succumbed to sleep. Aramis knew he did not have much time to put his plan into motion.  
  
He sat up and waited for the room to stop spinning around him. Fortunately, he already had his shirt and breeches on. He got up, supporting himself by holding on to the wall. He silently took his weapon and sneaked to the door.   
  
His body protested against the motion, but his will to protect his brothers prevailed. He opened the door and went outside.   
  
It was already becoming dark. He hoped it really was night falling, rather than his vision failing.  
  
He also hoped that he had correctly identified the stable. Fortunately, his nose did not lead him astray.  
  
He smiled at Orage, who turned her head in his direction. He gently caressed her forehead, and then took hold of her saddle. He had forgotten how heavy that saddle could be. His injured body protested against the effort, and he was grateful for a bench that helped him to mount. It was quite humiliating for a musketeer, but he had no choice.  
  
He slowly maneuvered from the building and then took the road in the direction of Paris.   
  
Once he had left the village, he did not bother to keep silent. He wanted to draw attention. And he succeeded.   
  
He was astonished that they were so quick to pursue him. They must have been waiting for him. He had to admit that they were quite good.  
  
He knew that his hands were not as stable as he wanted them to be. So, he waited a moment before shooting.   
  
Two shots, three riders down?!   
What the hell?!   
Suddenly, he saw Porthos.   
  
He locked his eyes on his friend. He tried so hard to convey all the friendship, all the warmth, and all the gratitude he felt.   
And all his pleas for forgiveness.   
He felt bullets piercing his flesh.   
  
Still, he could not feel any other pain than that which he saw in his brother's eyes.   
  
He nodded his farewell, and got Orage in motion. The mare broke into a run. It was a hellish ride--like a race with death.   
  
It was not the first such ride in Aramis' life. But it would be the last one, as he was not riding to save himself, but to save his brothers.   
  
Allancourt's men acted exactly as he wanted them to. When Aramis decided that he had put enough distance between him and the bandits, he slowed enough to manage to reload his gun.   
  
He thought he heard Porthos' voice.   
His friend would understand.   
It was all Aramis' fault.   
They would be safer without him.   
Enough people had died because of him.   
This was the best option. The right thing to do. It felt good.   
  
He even managed to reload his musket. Orage was really fast.   
  
The mare was worth every day he had had to fast in order to pay for her. He hoped d'Artagnan would take good care of her. She deserved a rider who was as good as the boy.  
  
He took his aim. There were still three riders coming...   
Only one.  
The one who stopped to fire.   
And another one coming...   
  
Aramis instinctively urged Orage to run. Or maybe it was her decision.   
Suddenly, the pain was overwhelming him.   
He was done for.   
He bit his lips to blood as he fought not to lose his grip on consciousness too soon.   
  
He tried hard to last a few minutes more to give Porthos more of a chance, but his body finally rebelled. He screamed when he fell from the horse. He could not breathe. His vision was darkening. He felt Orage's soft mouth nudging his face.   
  
And then someone was yelling his name. Yelling with so much anger and fear. He could feel Porthos' hands on his arms. He could not understand his words, but when he managed to focus his sight, the pain in his friend's eyes was too great to bear.   
  
Aramis suddenly was not sure if his Porthos would ever understand his decision.  
  
He managed to put his bloody hand on his friend's hand.  
  
'Lo siento... Por favor, perdóname, amigo... Brother…' He tried to whisper, but the darkness engulfed him.  
**  
'Lo siento... Por favor, perdóname, amigo...' -- I am sorry, please, forgive me, friend


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing. I hope I’ve answered all reviews I was able to.
> 
> Special thanks to Riversidewren for beta-ing

 

Porthos

 

He sneaked outside the village. He could not risk riding, so he knew it would take him quite a bit of time to check the forest surrounding the village. It was afternoon. He hoped that the bandits had built a fire. It was really too cold to camp outside without one.

 

The most important thing for him to find out was how many men were in the enemy force. If he had an opportunity, he would gladly take a prisoner to interrogate. However, it was probable that these men only knew what their orders were-- to catch Aramis and d'Artagnan. They would not know why they were doing it.

 

The discussion with Athos and the words of d'Artagnan had shown clearly that the musketeers had no real idea what was going on. The situation might be much more serious than they had thought. He guessed that this had been the reason he had not had to work to persuade Athos to agree to his little trip.

  
The leaves lying on the ground were wet, and therefore he could move silently. Porthos was not a man who walked quietly. He knew how to disappear in Paris, but the wilderness was another story. He did know the basics. Treville had made sure that he had learned some survival skills during his time as a recruit to the regiment. But afterwards, usually Athos or Aramis played the role of scout. Especially Aramis, who had a natural talent for it. Maybe this was because he had been raised in a village. Or maybe it was because he knew how to sneak out from an estate without being seen by the husband of the lady to whom he was paying a late night visit. 

 

Porthos was grateful that the weather was on his side. He started to circle outside the village. First he checked the closest part of forest. Then he followed the road going north--the road that was leading in the direction of Paris.

 

He finally saw the mercenaries' camp. They were smart. They had found a really good observation point. However, it was not a comfortable place for a camp. It meant these men were quite determined. Not good. 

 

The musketeer crawled near their position. Suddenly, they got up and rushed to their horses. Porthos readied his gun and cursed under his breath his lack of training.

 

There were six of them. He had no chance. But then he realized that they were not looking in his direction. Only then he did he hear it - the distant sound of horse’s hooves.

 

Someone was on the road. He had a very bad feeling. During years of soldiering, he had learned to trust his feelings. Especially the bad ones.

 

Abandoning any thought of cover, he broke into a run. The chance that anybody would hear him was really slim. When he reached their camp, the bandits were already rushing in the direction of the road, unaware of the musketeer's presence.

 

Porthos saw a lone rider on the road. Aramis!!! His heart was screaming, but his mouth remained closed. His brother shot one of the riders. 

 

Porthos chose the one nearest to him. Two shots rang out as one. 

 

And suddenly Porthos caught Aramis' eyes.

A plea for forgiveness.

The farewell.

 

‘NOOOO!!!!’ Porthos yelled, cursing that he had left his musket in the village. Of course it had made sense at the time – he had not been going to fight. He had gone only to gather information. It had seemed like a better idea to leave more firearms for Athos, just in case. It had been smart. And wise. If only Aramis had behaved! He was supposed to be sleeping or just resting in Louise's house. He should have been behaving himself-- fighting a fever, not bandits!!  


He could see Aramis flinching when the bandits' bullets found their aim.   


And then Orage ran away, the other horses hot on her heels.   


Porthos cursed that he had no horse. But then he saw one of the mercenaries' horses grazing on the grass, looking emotionlessly at his dead rider.   


Porthos ran towards the horse, then slowed a little, so as not to spook the animal. Luckily, the horse was more interested in his dinner than his surroundings, and Porthos managed to catch hold of the reins.

 

He mounted and made the animal follow the others. He saw Aramis in the distance. He had slowed, probably to reload his gun. 

 

Two-- no three-- shots. 

 

Porthos caught up with the slowest rider. The man was still trying to unsheath his sword when the furious strength of Porthos' blade went straight through him as the musketeer passed by.

 

The big man saw Aramis tumble from his mare. He felt like he was never to reach his friend. Orage was trying to rouse her rider, who was lying in a growing pool of blood.

 

‘Noooo!’ Porthos yelled, jumping at Aramis. He cupped his face, too frightened to search for a pulse. God-- fate--could not be so cruel!

 

‘You reckless bastard! You idiot!’ He was close to tears.

 

Aramis' eyes fluttered, then opened.

 

He mumbled something. Spanish? Porthos was not sure. It did not matter. He did not want to listen to Aramis begging for his forgiveness or saying his farewell. 

 

He tore Aramis' shirt and tried to slow the loss of blood. He could see the wounds. 

Three fresh wounds!

Three gunshot wounds!

Oh God!

Three wounds!!!

 

‘No, Aramis! Don't you even dare try to die on me!! I'll kill you, I swear!! No, Aramis!!! Please!!!!’

 

Porthos suddenly could not breathe when he saw blood on Aramis' lips. The wounds on his side… had the bullets punctured the lung?!

 

Aramis put his hand on Porthos'. The dark skinned musketeer could not restrain from brushing his friend's bloody hand with his lips. 

 

Porthos did his best to stem the bleeding. Then he decided he could not provide much help. He gently took Aramis in his arms. 

 

For a moment he hesitated. Which horse would be better? He decided against Orage. He did not want to harm Aramis' beautiful mare. He knew that he would not have pity on any animal that he would ride. He needed to get to the village immediately. He could feel the faint breath of Aramis on his neck. And he was quite sure that he would live as long as he was able to feel it.¶


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louise POV. A long night starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my Beta - Riversidewren.  
> Thank you for all comments :)  
> And please don't say Porthos where do I live ;)

Louise  
  
'Athos!!' A scream shocked her awake from a deep sleep. The bandits had finally attacked the village in order to take her patients from her. She felt anger. She watched as Athos handed a pistol to d'Artagnan and ran outside.   
  
The wounded boy was hardly able to hold the weapon. His hands was trembling so badly! Louise saw how he steadied the barrel somewhat by supporting it on pillows. She admired the determination in the boy's eyes. However, she knew that even if he managed to stop the first attacker, the next would kill him. She could not allow that to happen. She took a heavy breadboard and positioned herself near the door. She was scared.   
  
D'Artagnan glanced at her. She could see a ghostly smile on the young musketeer's lips. There was appreciation in his eyes, and she discovered that amazingly, it meant a lot to her.   
  
'It's us!' called Athos before opening the door. Louise saw the relief on d'Artagnan's face. The gun slipped from his grip, and then his eyes widened with horror.  
  
She looked in the direction of Athos and froze. Porthos stood close to his leader, with Aramis in his arms. Louise cast a glance towards the bed. Aramis was supposed to be sleeping there and not…  
  
She wanted so badly to wake up from this weird dream. Then she shook her head, and decided that she had to act in case it was not a dream.  
  
'What happened?' she asked, gesturing roughly towards the table. She would never be able to get the bloodstains off it.  
  
'He wanted keep us safe.' Porthos could barely speak, his voice thick with anger and anguish. 'The bandits aren't the problem anymore,' he added bleakly. 'He was shot! Save 'im, Madame, please!' There was no anger in his movements as he gently positioned Aramis on the table. The musketeer already looked dead.   
  
'Fetch Claire! She lives in the second house on the left!' Louise ordered. She was not surprised that it was Athos who obeyed her. Porthos looked as if he could not avert his gaze from his wounded friend, for fear that he would slip away.  
  
Louise took a deep breath. She cut the makeshift bandages, and did her best not to lose her composure. She bit her lips, aware that she had to perform another surgery to dig out the bullets. There were two entrance wounds in the man's side, each bleeding profusely. There were no exit wounds. And a very bad… gash on his arm. The bullet had cut deeply into muscle.   
  
Athos returned with Claire. Louise ordered them to prepare some boiling water and herbs. 'I have to take out the bullets,' she said slowly. 'I also must cauterize these wounds. I will need you to hold him down when I'm working on him.' She was praying that they wouldn't ask any questions.   
  
'Aramis…' Porthos' voice trembled. He positioned himself so that he kept his hands on the wounded man's arms, being careful to avoid the deep cut on his friend's arm. He was whispering something, but she did not pay attention to the words.  
  
Aramis was completely still. He did not react at all when Louise started to search for the bullet in his body. Luckily, it had not gone deep. After getting it out, she took the red-hot knife from Claire's hand. The girl was scared, but Louise knew that she had get used to that kind of treatment.   
  
The herbwoman met Porthos' eyes, and nodded to him. Then she put the blade to the wound. Aramis only flinched a bit, shivering slightly. She could feel the despair of the dark skinned musketeer, who had been ready for a hard fight to keep his brother still. She knew Claire was struggling against the urge to vomit. The smell of burned flesh was reminding the girl of the fire that had scarred her. However, Louise could not spare the child--not if she was to be a village healer.   
  
Louise focused on the second wound, her worry growing when the wounded soldier did not react to the incision into his flesh. She tried to be quick. Aramis had not much time left if… She was afraid that he was already beyond her help.   
  
But she stubbornly refused to give up. She had not thought that d'Artagnan had a chance, but the boy was still alive. So maybe these musketeers were just tougher then people who she usually tended to. But this soldier was guilt ridden. Furthermore, he had not had time to recover from his previous injuries and infection. That was never a good combination. However, she really had no experience with people who first were ill, and then severely injured.  
  
Finally she dug out the second bullet. She was quite scared by the amount of blood which started to trickle down to the floor. She forced her hands not to shake as she methodically cauterized the wound. She watched the deadly pale complexion of her patient for a moment. A thin sheen of sweat was on his face. She laid her hand on his chest to check and see if his heart was still beating. It took her a few minutes to be sure that he was still alive. She could feel the musketeers' gaze on her hands. Her hands were red with their brother's blood. Only then she did she realize that she had smeared that crimson on his chest and face.  
  
She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she cleaned the last wound. There was no way she could stitch it closed. She just put on a salve and a bandage. Then she checked his previous injury. Somehow, there had been no further damage.   
  
She heard a gasp of pain from the other side of the room. She looked over to see d'Artagnan struggling to get up.  
  
'Lie down!' she shouted. Both musketeers reacted to her voice. They eyed each other, and then Athos went to the boy.  
  
'Aramis?' d'Artagnan was terrified for his brother.  
  
'That is a good question. How is he?' Porthos asked Louise. And for the first time, the herbwoman felt frightened by him.   
  
'Bad. He has lost too much blood,' Louise answered  
  
'What exactly do you mean, Madame?'  
  
'I mean that if he regains consciousness, there will be some hope.' Watching the musketeer's face, it took all her composure to say it.  
  
He nodded shakily, and then hit the wall with his fist. 'Idiot!' he growled  
  
'Monsieur, I would prefer that you refrain from destroying my house,' she said coldly.  
  
'Porthos… It's my fault, I shouldn't have…,' Athos did not get a chance to finish. Porthos grabbed his shirt and nearly threw him on the wall, not loosening his grip.  
  
'I don't want to hear that you feel guilty! Look, wh're guilt's driven 'Mis?!! No guilt, Athos, do you understand me?!'  
  
Louise glanced in that direction and winced. ‘It would be helpful, Monsieur, if you would put your friend back in bed.'  
  
The musketeers followed her gaze. Athos jumped at d'Artagnan, who was kneeling near the bed. He tried to lift his head, but the only thing he was able to do was to collapse in Athos' arms.  
  
Louise watched as Athos cradled the boy in his arms and whispered something in his ear. Then he gently put him on the bed. Louise approached them. The boy still was feverish, and Louise was afraid that his condition might worsen because of his worry for his friend. But there was nothing she could do to comfort him.  
  
Nothing?  
  
'Monsieur?' she leaned towards Athos. 'Take good care of him. He needs you.' There was a note of warning in her voice. And when he saw the fear in the man's eyes, she knew that her words had hit home.   
  
Porthos carefully positioned Aramis near d'Artagnan. He took a bowl of water and started to clean his brother's face. 'He's hot,' he murmured fearfully.  
  
'He still has a fever,' she answered. 'We must keep him warm.' She adjusted the wool blanket on the wounded man.  
  
'Why his hands are so cold?' Again, she heard the same anguish in his voice.  
  
'He has lost too much blood,' she replied softly. She could feel that the big man was fighting back tears. It was so unjust that they were suffering. She wanted so badly to protect them from pain, but she was not able to. Not with their suicidal tendencies.

Aramis had wanted to protect his friend, to protect her village. It was so totally wrong. She knew that this would be another hellish night. And she was not certain who would live until the next dawn.  
  
'I'll be back,' she promised, and left quickly after giving a few instructions to Claire. She went to her sister’s home. It was already late at night, and the children were asleep. Her husband was repairing a harness for the horses. He put aside his work when she approached him.  
  
'They made us safe,' she murmured, searching for shelter in his arms.  
  
'You're worried.'  
  
'One of them… is badly wounded… I am afraid for him--and for them all.'  
  
'You'll save them,' he whispered into her hair.  
  
'He doesn't want to be saved,' she replied.  
  
'Then it's up to his brothers to make him change his mind.'  
  
'I don't know if his will really has any significance now… I am scared, Jean! I had started to have hope… but now… I am so scared that this night will mean their end.'


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis POV

Aramis  
  
_Cold. He was so cold. He tried to find any source of heat. But there was nothing. He could feel blood freezing on his face. He longed for warmth. And then suddenly, it came. A warm hand cupped his face._  
  
_'Aramis?'_  
  
_He opened his eyes to look into Marsac's face. There was a worried smile in his eyes--the smile he knew so well. He drank in the smile that he now saw dancing in his friend's eyes. It was the Marsac he had known before Savoy. It was the musketeer who had taught him some secrets of swordsmanship. The person whom he could trust. However, he also remembered that this was the friend whom he had shot dead._  
  
_'Marsac?' he asked, confused._  
  
_God, he was so tired._  
  
_'I came back for you. This time, you will go with me.'_  
  
_Aramis tried to understand. Something was wrong._  
  
_Crimson puddles on the snow. The whiteness. The whiteness of her skin. His queen lying lifeless in the snow. It was his fault. He averted his gaze from her. For a moment, he thought he saw Porthos, but he was mistaken. He did not even remember how his brother had died. How could he have already forgotten?! He could only remember the accusation that he had seen in the eyes of his dead best friend._  
  
_'No me pidas que viva,' he replied softly when he saw Marsac once again._  
  
_'I won't ask you,' came the answer. 'You have betrayed too many people, too many times. You broke Porthos' heart, don't you remember? He died proclaiming your innocence, all because you didn't have the courage to tell him that the Queen's death was your fault!'_  
  
_'Es culpa mía,' he agreed, bowing his head. He could feel hot tears on his face. The tears were freezing quickly._  
  
_'Yes, it is. She was hung because she was carrying your child. Everyone who loves you dies. You killed me to protect your precious captain. You killed me, my friend.'_  
  
_'Lo siento…'_  
  
_A slap in the face._  
  
_'No! You thought you did what was best. You let your captain betray again. Do you remember how d'Artagnan begged for water when he was slowly bleeding out? Do you remember how the bullet smashed Athos' face? The duke of Savoy took out his vengeance on them. Do you remember Porthos drowning in his own blood? If you had believed me, they would have lived. By killing me, you murdered them. However, I should be grateful to you. It was better to die… to die like a musketeer.'_  
  
_'Quiero morir,' Aramis whispered._  
  
_'I know. That's why I am here. There will be peace. You'll rest. I am here for you, Aramis.'_  
  
_'No me abandones!'_  
  
_'I won't, Aramis. Not this time.' Marsac gently touched his cheek. 'I am here for you, my brother.'_  
  
'My brother… please… don't leave me. Do you remember the first time we met?' Another voice--a familiar one. He thought for a moment that he could feel someone holding his hand. He was not able to make sense of the words, but there was something comforting in that voice.   
  
_'Come.' Marsac took him by the hand, pulling Aramis towards him._  
  
_Cobblestones. The yard at the Chatelet. He was facing the gallows. The crowd was shouting in excitement, impatiently awaiting his execution._  
  
_Athos' gaze conveyed his disappointment. How many times would he watch his friends dying?!_  
  
_'You have killed us. So don't be surprised to be here now, watching our deaths.' Christine was standing near him. She gently put the noose around his neck, 'You will watch all us die. It is your punishment. I regret that I ever loved you.' She kissed him gently. He could taste blood--her blood._  
  
_'No!!!' he cried. He did not hear his own voice._  
  
_'I can give you the peace that you want so badly.' Marsac was still in front of him. He was disappointed. Sad. Upset by Aramis' actions._  
  
_The marksman slowly walked towards him._  
  
'Stay with me! Aramis! Aramis…'  
  
_He remembered the voice. He remembered the salty taste of his friend's tears. He did not really understand what had happened. There was darkness. Only the faint glow of a dying fire could be seen. He was lying quite comfortably in someone's arms. There was the dull pain of wounds, but what caught his attention was the despair. Someone must have died. He felt sorry for Porthos. He gently squeezed his arm._  
  
_'You're alive!!!'_  
  
_Shock and joy. So much joy! So much relief._  
  
It was the past. The past in which Porthos had given him his friendship so freely.  
  
He had failed Porthos. He had failed him in life, and now he was failing him because he was dying. Porthos, who hated Marsac for leaving him. Porthos, who was so loyal. He could feel that he was losing his grasp on life. No, he had already lost it. His fingers were too numb and too cold to grasp anything. But someone's hand was gripping them tightly. Someone's hand was his only connection to life.  
  
_Marsac was waiting for him. Marsac, who had left him. He had saved him, and then left him. Marsac promised him peace._  
  
'Aramis! Please! Don't do this to me! 'Mis! What you did was so foolish! I can't lose you! 'Mis! I need you. Damn, I need you!'  
  
_'Aramis? Come?' Marsac held out his hand._  
  
_'Por favor, perdóname… Por favor…' He did not know who he was asking for forgiveness._  
  
***  
No me pidas que viva. - Don't ask me to live  
Es culpa mía' - my fault  
Lo siento… - I am sorry  
Queiro morir - I want to die  
No me abandones! - don't leave me  
Por favor, perdóname… Por favor…' - please, forgive me, please

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my awesome Beta - Riversidewren.
> 
> I am still using Blackie-Noir’s kind translation to Spanish – thank you.
> 
> I must say I am quite astonished. I have never planned so many chapters. Thank you all for still hanging in that story. It means a lot for me!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porhos POV. The endless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you for beta :)   
> Thank you all who give that story their time :)

Porthos  
  
Aramis was lying on the bed. He was so still. His hands were so cold. Only the faint movement of his chest betrayed that the musketeer was still alive. Porthos had one hand on Aramis' chest. There was nothing which could give him more hope that his friend's heartbeat. He just could not imagine life without his dearest brother.   
  
He glanced in Athos' direction for a moment. His leader was cradling d'Artagnan, comforting him with his touch. Their eyes met--eyes that were full of anguish, and full of guilt.   
  
Porthos had shouted at Athos for feeling guilty, but he could see that it had not changed much.   
  
'Mis won't die,' whispered Porthos.  
  
Athos closed his eyes.  
  
'You're right. He… he shouldn't have known… jf I had known he was able to ride, I'd have sent you two with all the gunfire we could gather.' Athos shook his head.  
  
'Athos, it is not your fault. 'Mis's still breathing. The bullets didn't hit anything vital...the healer told us…' His voice trailed off. The healer had told them that Aramis had lost too much blood. Porthos had seen too many soldiers die from blood loss. The majority of them died without ever regaining consciousness. They just slipped away, oblivious to the pleas of their friends. He strengthened his grip on Aramis' clammy hand. Even in the faint glow of the candle, he could see how pale the marksman's face was.   
  
'Mis…' he whispered. 'I remember when we first met.' He started to talk, hoping that his voice would anchor Aramis in the land of the living.  
  
_Riding a horse had been a real challenge. He had been given the worst animal in the entire stable, but there was nothing he could do about it. He still was not ready to acknowledge that leaving the Court of Miracles had been a mistake._  
  
_'Has this horse eaten your hand?' A teasing voice came from the entrance to the stables.  
  
'No!' Porthos nearly growled, ready to defend himself from mockery. He glanced at the newcomer. He had seen this man before, during training. The young, dark-haired musketeer looked at him, a glint in his eyes.  
  
'May I help you? He's a good horse. Not as moody as the others, just a little bit stubborn. Watch how his ears talk to you.'  
  
'What?'  
  
'Fine,' the other sighed. 'I guess you haven't had much contact with horses. They are like ladies –_ _moody and beautiful. We should respect them, but never trust them.'  
_  
_Porthos laughed. He felt as if the day had just become brighter.  
_  
_'I'm Aramis,' the man offered, extending his hand. There was a smile on his lips, and warmth danced in his eyes.  
_  
Porthos' voice trailed off. He fought against tears. Seeing Aramis so still and silent was just so wrong. Aramis never was that still. He suffered nightmares too often to be a peaceful sleeper. However, Porthos had a suspicion that not all of Aramis' dreams were nightmares--especially not those which provoked a lusty smile on his lips.   
  
'Open your eyes, 'Mis! Tease me, mock me...please! I need so badly to hear your voice! I could even stand it if you were mumbling in Spanish… Please!'  
  
_'Just shut up!' His head was killing him. The long walk toward the castle where they had left their horses had done nothing to cheer up him. He was dead on his feet, and thirsty. The only thing they had to drink was sour wine. It was horrible, and tasted like vinegar, not wine.  
_  
_'Look at these flowers! They are so beautiful. It's like paradise!' They were passing by the flowering orchards. Aramis loved spring. It made him exuberant.  
_  
_'Just shut up!' Porthos repeated.  
_  
_'What's the matter?' He could see a twinkle in his friend's eye.  
_  
_'My head hurts, so shut up!'  
_  
_Aramis stopped in the shade of the trees.  
  
'Sit down!' he ordered. Porthos scowled at him, but obeyed. Aramis stood behind him. Porthos could feel his friend's fingers massaging his sore head.  
_  
_'Relax…' came a soft murmur. 'I don't have any herbs with me, so this is all I can do to help you.'  
_  
_'Relax… it's me.'  
_  
_He would never forget that voice--not after so many days spent in that damn cellar. Porthos had spent his days shackled, waiting for death to save him from prolonged agony. He could feel the water on his lips. It had the sweetest taste. He drank greedily, aware of Aramis' gentle voice. Porthos could feel his friend's hands ghost over his body, checking for injuries. That voice meant that he was safe. Even more importantly, it meant that he was not alone. He had not been abandoned--had not been left alone to face the agony of a slow death.  
_  
'Aramis, you just can't die! Do you hear me?' He adjusted his grip on his friend's hand, hoping against hope to elicit a reaction from him. 'Just give me a sign that you are still there.'  
  
The only signs were the faint heart beat and the ghost of a breath that he felt when he leaned toward Aramis' face.   
  
Porthos glanced at Louise. He had not even noticed that the healer had returned.  
  
'Is there anything we can do for him, Madame?' he asked, stroking Aramis' hair protectively.  
  
'Keep trying to make him drink, just as you have done, Monsieur. You are here for him. Nothing more… can be done. We have to wait. It is now up to him and God.'  
  
He heard these very words so many times from Aramis. Porthos had been there for Aramis the first time that the medic had lost a fellow musketeer to his wounds. He remembered his friend's haunted eyes, even though Aramis had known from the start that the odds of his patient surviving were slim.   
  
_'Aramis?' His friend was sitting at the table, the bottle of wine in front of him.  
_  
_'I spoke with his wife--to his widow...just as Lambert asked me to. She thanked me, Porthos! How could she thank me?! I didn't save him! I didn't save her husband...the father of her children! I failed... and she thanked me!'  
_  
_Porthos suddenly remembered what Aramis had told him about how to calm down a gravely injured soldier. Porthos tried to comfort his friend, using the method that Aramis had told would him be effective. It worked, but in an unexpected way. Aramis watched him, then he broke into a laugh--but not a merry laugh.  
_  
_'I am not in shock! I just don't understand why this woman thanked me!'  
  
'But it worked! I was able to distract you from your thoughts!'  
_  
_Aramis laughed again, but this time, there was so much warmth in his laugh._  
  
'You are hopeless!'

_A few months later, Porthos was struggling to remember everything Aramis had told him about shock, especially in survivors of massacres. He was in Savoy's forest, holding his friend in his arms and listening to his sobs and curses. He did not even remember riding there--it was all a blur. He did remember that when Treville had told them about the massacre, he had refused to believe it. Porthos was so grateful that Athos had decided to go with him to bring Aramis' body home. But.. there was still a soul in that body. A wounded soul, to be sure, but still the soul of his dearest friend. He could read the silent vow in Athos' eyes. They would all help Aramis pull through.  
_  
_The days and nights after Savoy had been terrible. Their brother was consumed by fever, pleading and cursing both in Spanish and French. During all the times he called for Marsac, during all the times_ he _called a roll-call for his fellow musketeers who had died in Savoy's forest-- Porthos and Athos were there for him. They were stricken by his grief, and frightened that his mind may be lost forever to the dark dreams. Despite this, they were glad that they could still fight for him, and were relieved that they would be taking their brother back to Paris. Aramis was ailing and deeply wounded, but he was still-- alive.  
_  
'Aramis… I would never leave you! Believe me, please!' Porthos breathed again the words he had whispered on the countless nights he had spent comforting Aramis in the aftermath of a nightmare. He looked up to take another cup of boiled herbs from Louise, and was preparing to drip it into Aramis 'mouth when he saw d'Artagnan's gaze fixed on the marksman's face.  
  
'D'Artagnan?' he inquired gently.  
  
'How is he?' asked the boy. Porthos caught the pleading look in Athos' eyes.  
  
'He's hanging in there,' he answered.  
  
The Gascon spoke up. 'It was also my fault… I…'  
  
'Hush!' Athos interrupted him. 'Hush… the bandits thought you were dead.'  
  
'Allancourt is the only one to blame for all this. And we will make him pay-- comte or no comte,' declared Porthos.  
  
'D'Artagnan.' Athos' voice was grave. 'I want to make sure that you understand that we need you. We need you alive, and in good health.'  
  
The boy shuddered. 'You think he won't make it?'  
  
'That is not what I mean. I am just saying that you cannot let your own condition worsen because you are worried about Aramis. It is the last thing he would ever want for any of us. I feel that I must make this very clear to you. Do you understand me, d'Artagnan?'  
  
'You need me to fight. I get it,' replied the boy, surprised that Louise chose that very moment to hand him a cup of broth.  
  
'I'm not hungry!' he protested.  
  
'You need it to regain your strength,' answered Louise. With a lopsided smile, she set a plate of food in front of the other conscious musketeers.  
  
'He needs you fit, not exhausted,' she said, her face serious. She stayed in the room while they ate the food she had given them, and the men felt her eyes on them the entire time.  
  
Then she excused herself to check on Aramis. The friends held their breath as they waited for her verdict. She turned to them and bit her lips.   
  
Porthos caught her hand. 'And?'  
  
'No change,' she answered.  
  
'That's a good sign?'  
  
'Not really...' she replied softly.  
  
Porthos lowered his tearful gaze. He wanted so badly to believe that he would soon hear Aramis' voice once again. He wanted to be able to look into his brother's dark eyes. Hell, at this point, he would even welcome listening to his grumbling!  
  
_'You call that a sewn wound?! It's a massacre! It's a massacre on my back!' With the aid of two mirrors, Aramis was awkwardly inspecting his healing wound.  
_  
_'It was your idea that I should sew it up!' replied Porthos hotly. He had been incredibly frightened when he had had to pierce Aramis' flesh with a needle in order to stop the bleeding--in order to save his life. Aramis had told him that it was necessary, but now Porthos just wanted him to stop talking about it. His friend's words were bringing back the memory of that fear.  
_  
_'You have ruined my life!'  
  
'What are you talking about?! I saved your life! You're the one who is always saying that the ladies love scars! Have you changed your mind? Come on! If a woman sees that scar, it means that she likes you enough to want to get you shirtless!'  
_  
_'You're hurting my feelings!'  
  
'Be happy that I haven't punched you! You always do it to me!'  
_  
_'But that would be unfair! After all, it is more difficult for me to sew up a wound when I am bleeding from my nose--or from a split lip.' The mischievous glint was back in Aramis' eyes.  
_  
There was a change. He could not say if it was actually a change in Aramis' pulse, but he felt sure that his friend was slipping away--sure that each breath might be his last. He could feel panic taking hold of him.  
  
'Aramis?! Aramis! Please! Don't do this to me! 'Mis! What you did was so foolish! I can't lose you! 'Mis! I need you. Damn, I need you!'  
  
Porthos could feel Athos gazing at him intently, and he knew that his leader understood exactly what he was feeling. He leaned towards Aramis, gripping his cold hands. If only his will was enough to save his dearest friend's life! He gently drew Aramis into his arms. Some part of him waited for the herbwoman's sharp protest, but she said not a word.  
  
He shifted position, trying to share his body heat with his friend while keeping him comfortable. Porthos suddenly realized that he was holding Aramis exactly the way that Athos had held d'Artagnan.   
  
'Aramis!' A tear dropped on the marksman's face. 'I won't let you die! I won't! You always cheat death. You must do it again. You know how to do it!'  
  
_He screamed when Aramis and his opponent fell off the cliff. Porthos finished off his own enemies, then threw himself down at the edge of the cliff. He could see the stormy sea beneath him.  
_  
_'Aramis!!!' he shouted, and then… he saw him. Aramis was clinging to a rock. The waves were trying to tear him off it in order to smash his body. Porthos shouted for someone to bring him a rope. He was not completely sure that his friend was fully conscious until the end of the rope hit him in the face and Aramis grasped it. And few seconds later, Porthos was able to seize his hand and haul him to safety. Aramis' eyes had been filled with gratitude.  
_  
_Porthos had felt the same gratitude a few days earlier when he saw a bandit slowly pulling the trigger of a gun that was aimed directly at him. The musketeer was disarmed, and he was out of options. He knew that he was about to die. A shot rang out, and Porthos was astonished that he was still able to stand. It seemed impossible that the bullet had missed him. He watched as the bandit fell, his sightless eyes full of surprise. Then he realized that there was another gun--one which was still pointed in his direction. He saw Aramis lifting the barrel, gently blowing away the traces of the smoke.  
_  
_'Sorry to interrupt you, but I was really getting quite bored watching you fight.'  
  
'I owe you my life!' Porthos had replied, still in shock.  
_  
_Aramis' eyes widened for a moment. 'I thought we already discussed this. All you owe me, my friend, is a good drink.'_  
  
Porthos instinctively adjusted his breathing to that of his brother. It was almost painful, but if it was necessary to do so in order to anchor his friend to this world, Porthos would do it.  
  
He became aware that Athos was sitting next to him, with one hand on his arm, and the other on Aramis'. He glanced at d'Artagnan. The boy huddled close to them, openly crying.  
  
'You can't leave us behind!' whispered Porthos in Aramis' ear. 'Remember, one for all…'  
'And all for one,' finished Athos and d'Artagnan together.   
  
The oath.  
The threat.  
The promise.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos POV. Some answers, more angst.

 

Athos  
  
There were no words---or maybe it was just that he could not find any. He could only offer his silent presence--could only watch helplessly as his brother slipped away. He listened to Porthos' broken pleas. If those words were not enough, nothing could be done.   
  
He felt the weight of his guilt. Not only because he had been sleeping when Aramis had sneaked out, but also because there was just not much hope left in his heart. The memory of his nightmares was too vivid. His terrible dreams seemed so close to the reality he was facing.   
  
Suddenly, he become aware that something had changed. The trembling in Porthos' voice increased. So, it was actually happening. He could not believe it. He gently laid d'Artagnan on the bed, then moved over to Aramis, placing his hand on Porthos' arm. The dark skinned musketeer only glanced at him. But in the short moment when their eyes met, Athos knew that Porthos' heart was breaking.   
  
With fear in his own heart, Athos suddenly understood that if Aramis died, he might very well lose Porthos as well. As he watched Porthos cradle the marksman in his arms, Athos tried as hard as he could to maintain his composure.   
  
He was not sure if had ever seen their medic in such critical condition. Aramis was rarely seriously injured. The man just had unbelievable luck. Usually he ended up bruised and sour, but fit enough to patch them up and pray for them.  
  
_'Ave Maria, Gratia plen, Dominus Tecum.' A familiar voice reached Athos through the fog of pain. Was he dying? He knew that the answer was probably yes if Aramis was praying over him. He struggled to open his eyes. The musketeer was ready to welcome death, but oddly, it really did not seem as if the wound was fatal._  
  
_'Aramis?' he asked. Even to his ears, his voice sounded too strong to be that of a dying man._  
  
_'Athos! How do you feel?' The medic smiled at him._  
  
_'It doesn't matter, does it?' Athos thought to himself wearily. He saw confusion on Aramis' face, then a big grin._  
  
_'Maybe I can do something for you, but I'm not sure what. Hmm, maybe a glass of wine?' Athos knew that Aramis was teasing him, and he was just too tired to play games._  
  
_'I am dying, am I not?' he finally asked directly._  
  
_Aramis laughed merrily, his eyes full of relief and amusement. 'I am praying for your swift recovery, not for the eternal peace of your soul!'_  
  
_'I see...well, you did mention wine, did you not?' inquired Athos dryly, fighting the smile that was tugging at his lips._  
  
Aramis' joy was always so contagious. What would the future be like without him? Without his teasing? There would be no one to deal with Porthos' rage. Athos knew it would be a challenge to find a way to protect the big man from himself  
  
Aramis, who had taught him how to have hope... who had reminded him that there were people who could be trusted… Aramis, who had saved his life so many times… as a brother in arms, as a marksman, as a medic… and as a friend. Aramis had not allowed him to drown himself in wine, and he had always been there to sober his leader up when the situation required it. Athos could not find the words to convey to the dying man what he had really meant to him. The only thing he could do was to hold his friend's hand, but its coldness frightened him.  
  
'Remember, one for all…' the Musketeers' motto, whispered by Porthos, seemed so loud in the silent room.  
  
'And all for one,' Athos instinctively answered, d'Artagnan's voice joining in.   
  
Aramis' condition was Athos' fault. He should have gone with Porthos to solve the problem of the bandits, but his reluctance to leave d'Artagnan had held him back. And now the boy was weeping, curled up near Aramis. Athos knew that the fever was heightening the lad's emotions. If he had been healthy, he would never have shown his anguish so openly.   
  
Athos longed for a bottle of wine---or three--just to drink himself into oblivion. He did not want to be a witness to his friend's death, especially when it was his fault that Aramis was dying.  
  
Allancourt. Athos tried to recall anything he knew about him, but had no luck. Instead, he focused on wondering what use the man might have for a musketeer. He had a few ideas, but surely it would have been easier for Allancourt to blackmail Aramis about his affair with Christine then to force d'Artagnan to do his bidding. Why d'Artagnan? The Gascon must have some information---or at least Allancourt thought the lad possessed some information. The palace tunnels? Maybe Allancourt thought Vadim had told the boy something. It did not make sense, but perhaps information about the tunnels was a starting point for negotiations.  
  
Athos thought about various options. It was better than listening to Porthos' desperate pleas. Athos knew that he had whispered the same sort of things to d'Artagnan. However, when the dark skinned musketeer also referred to memories they had shared, Athos closed his eyes, not able to stand the sight of Aramis' deathly pale face.   
  
So, why d'Artagnan? He tried to focus on that question. Suddenly, he knew. D'Artagnan was the youngest musketeer, so logically he would be the easiest to bribe--at least to someone who knew nothing of him. Allancourt needed a spy among the musketeers. So, he had ordered his men to bring d'Artagnan to him. The comte wanted either to break d'Artagnan in order to force him to obey his orders-- or to blackmail the Inseparables. The second option was a short-term one. It all really depended on what Allancourt needed. And what was at stake? The Musketeers' Regiment? The safety of the King and France?   
  
Athos touched the boy's neck gently, wanting to check for himself that d'Artagnan's condition was not worsening. He froze. The boy was burning up with fever! Athos was quite sure that the lad was much hotter than he had been a few minutes earlier. He cursed under his breath.  
  
'Madame!' He called for Louise, gesturing to the boy. She came over to them, and gently touched d'Artagnan's face.  
  
'I was afraid of that… I'll bring some cold water and prepare some willow bark…' Her voice trailed off, and she withdrew.   
  
Athos glanced at Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer merely nodded, indicating his acceptance of his leader's plan. The older musketeer still hoped that the battle for Aramis' life had not been lost. If the answer was yes…   
  
No! He refused to think about it. He gently disentangled d'Artagnan slightly from the marksman in order to wipe his face with a cold rag. He took great care not to break the contact between his protégé and Aramis.   
  
'Sorry…' mumbled d'Artagnan. 'Thos… I've failed you…'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this story and for all your reviews. I am leaving for a few days and I think I would not have the opportunity to update, so please forgive me.
> 
> Riversidewren, thank you for everything.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren.   
> I hope you’ll enjoyed this. I wanted to get everyone’s POV of that endless night.

D'Artagnan

  
He felt miserable. Helpless. He knew that he had failed Athos utterly. However, if he had been asked how he had failed, he knew he would not be able to explain it. The heat was suffocating him. He was struggling to breathe. The coldness on his face was bringing him some relief, but it was not enough. Silence was surrounding him. Athos' voice was not there to anchor him. Athos was upset with him, and he had every right to be. It was just so simple.  
  
D'Artagnan leaned into coldness of the still body. His mind screamed at him, telling him that something was terribly wrong. There was a life slipping away. He was not sure whose life it was. His? Suddenly, he knew that there was a reason to accept it. He did not remember the reason, though. He just felt so tired.   
  
_A room? A cellar? He could not put a name to the place. Aramis was sitting on the floor, leaning into the wall. He looked haggard, and was totally dishevelled, his hair partially hiding his face. The Gascon could see that his eyes were half open. The Spaniard motioned to d'Artagnan to sit down. Was he shackled? D'Artagnan was not sure. Aramis remained silent, and seemed to be waiting for something. The boy knew that he needed to talk to his friend about something important. He had been searching for Aramis for some time, but now, when there was an opportunity to talk, he could not remember what was so urgent. He was so incredibly tired.  
_  
_Outside, a storm was raging. The rain beat against the window. The window itself was changing, alternating between the barred window of a prison and a window in a normal room. D'Artagnan was vaguely aware that he needed Aramis' help. He glanced at his friend's face. The sharpshooter must have felt his gaze, because he looked straight at the boy, his eyes conveying an unspoken question.  
_  
_The lad shivered. He felt awful. He was certainly ill. Was that the reason he wanted to meet with Aramis? He could not remember. What he did know was that staring at his friend's brown eyes seemed very important right now._  
  
_Suddenly, he found himself kneeling in the rain, holding a body in his arms. He could feel the warm blood on his hands. He desperately screamed for help, but there was no one to answer his call. He lowered his eyes to look into his father's face, and suddenly froze. He was not holding his father, but Aramis, his lifeless body cooling rapidly. His friend's blood was on his hands. D'Artagnan prayed that he himself would die there instantly alongside his comrade. He should have saved Aramis. He had known where the marksman was, but he had failed to save him. He was weeping. He hoped Porthos would kill him. It would be the best option for him._  
  
_So, why was he in that barred room again? Was it a dungeon? A cellar?  
_  
_'Aramis…' he whispered, 'You are dead! Did you come here for vengeance?'  
_  
_The sharpshooter---no, his ghost--finally reacted. He glanced at the boy, and d'Artagnan saw that there was sadness in his eyes. Not hatred, not anger, just sadness--and silent resignation.  
_  
_'Talk to me! Do you want to punish me for your death?!'  
_  
_No… not for his death. It had been Athos--Athos had been killed! That was the reason for Aramis' silence. The walls began to tilt, and blackness closed in on him. A hot blackness. He felt as if the guilt was burning him alive.  
_  
_'Aramis!' he gasped. He needed help.  
_  
_The medic slowly raised the hand that was shackled to the wall. Deep regret was in his eyes.  
_  
_D'Artagnan curled on the floor in a futile attempt to shield himself from the pain, from the heat. He drew closer to Aramis, and he could feel cold fingers on his cheek.  
_  
_'Why do I fail everyone I love?' he asked in a broken voice.  
_  
_'We're cursed. All of us,' came the older musketeer's answer. D'Artagnan could not agree more.  
_  
_'Will we live to see the sunrise?' the Gascon asked suddenly.  
_  
_Aramis gently shook his head.  
_  
_Heavy rain. The inn. Puddles of water mixed with blood.  
_  
_The images flooded him.  
_ He was dying.   
He thought he could already hear his father's warm voice. How he longed to hear him once again!  
  
'Fight, d'Artagnan! Don't give up!' It was not Athos, but the voice was a familiar one. A voice which he trusted, and to which he listened eagerly.   
  
_Cold fingers wound around his wrist. Raindrops flowed down his face. Everything hurt.  
_  
_Then he saw her. She was so beautiful. He drank in her smile, but she was not smiling at him. He wanted to hold her in his arms just one more time--to tell her how much he had been missed her. But then her husband called her, and she disappeared into their house. Their house-- which for a few months, had been d'Artagnan's home as well.  
_  
_He ran away from that street, leaving the memories behind. He was once more in the strange room with Aramis. His friend was still there, waiting for his execution.  
_  
_'Help me!' cried d'Artagnan. He could feel the pain of a stab wound in his side.  
_  
_'You're beyond my help, lad,' came the sad reply. A hand gently stroked his hair.  
_  
_'I know… I'll die if they kill you...' he replied  
_  
_A sad smile ghosted Aramis' lips. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan could not hear his friend's answer, and felt very frustrated. It was so important that he hear what Aramis had to say!  
_  
'D'Artagnan, listen to me! You must fight! For me!'  
  
_'I was the reason for your death, Athos… Don't ask me to live!' He did not hear his own voice, but that was not really important. After all, he was talking to the dead.  
_  
'Tell Constance I loved her,' he begged. Who was he begging? He did not know.   
  
_'I will break you. You will tell me everything I want to know!' He did not recognize the man who said these words, but d'Artagnan believed that he meant it. Clearly, this man would do everything to break him--and he was so utterly alone._  
  
Suddenly, there was a change. Someone shook him roughly. A voice-- Athos' voice-- was calling him.  
  
'I am coming..' he promised.  
  
God, he was so tired…


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time the Captain POV I hope you'll enjoy :)

 

Tréville  
  
_He was watching four coffins being lowered into the ground. Four musketeer's coffins. He had just finished the speech he had given to memorialize his four best men. He knew he had bid them farewell, but he did not really remember what he had said.  
_  
_He knew that he would still look out from his balcony upon hearing horses' hooves, in the futile hope that he would see his men returning.  
_  
_He could not forget the sight of their bloody corpses lying in the carriage. They had fought hard--that much was obvious. He had been there when the blood was washed from their bodies, and he had seen their wounds. Each of them had received several lethal injuries. They had fought like madmen, like devils… like his best musketeers.  
_  
_Their attackers were still free. Those men had been able to take the bodies of their fallen comrades and retreat. Whoever they were... he would find them and make them pay.  
_  
_But it wouldn't bring Athos back. He had hoped that one day his lieutenant would take his place. Now, he had just buried him in the garrison's cemetery. He suddenly felt very old. Athos had been so important to him--like a son.  
_  
_The other two... in the rare times when he had forgotten how much guilt he carried, he had been able to perceive them as his sons also. Still, it was hard for him to watch Aramis and not think about his brothers killed in Savoy. And now he had put the last soldier from Savoy to rest. As for Porthos, he would never know his true story. Maybe it was better that way… No! He could not accept that Porthos' death would be better than knowing the truth.  
_  
_The young d'Artagnan had been such a talented soldier--so loyal, so enthusiastic. He was like a light--like a flame among the Inseparables. Their pup. He knew that they called him by that nickname, and agreed with it completely.  
_  
_But now they were all gone. It was a blessing that they had died together. It would be have been a hopeless task to try to comfort a lone survivor-- whoever might it have been. He would have only been a witness to the slow agony of a beloved soldier.  
_  
A sound awoke him. Someone was knocking on the door. He needed a moment to realize that the tragic funeral was only a dream. It was now late at night. He had ordered that he was to be informed immediately if the Inseparables returned. They were already two days late, and Tréville had learned many years ago that such a delay surely meant trouble.  
  
Fortunately, he had been so tired after returning from duty at the palace that he had not bothered to undress.  
  
He opened the door warily, a pistol in his hand. He lowered the weapon when he saw one of the musketeers who was on guard duty that night.  
  
"Captain! Messengers from Athos have come!"  
  
This sounded strange.  
  
"Get them to my office, now!" he ordered.  
  
Sabien acknowledged the order, and left.  
  
On the way to his office, Tréville noticed two people waiting near the table in the courtyard. From their posture, he could see that they were frightened. He called to Sabien to bring the messengers up, then dismissed the musketeer.  
  
The two hooded people stood in his office. Their clothes were soaked and dirty, but he could not see any traces of blood on them.  
  
They took their hoods off. They were very young. A brother and a sister, he assumed. The boy tried to shield his sister from the Captain. They appeared to be the children of a farmer.  
  
"I am Captain Tréville. The guard told me that you have a message for me."  
  
"Yes, sire. I am François Etin, and this is my sister, Colette. We were sent from Epi-sur-Esonne with this letter." Bowing, he handed the Captain a paper, then retreated a step or two.  
  
Tréville recognized Athos' writing, and opened the letter.  
  
_'Captain, I am not sure when we will reach Paris. Our mission has been completed, but we were attacked. Aramis and Porthos are badly wounded. d'Artagnan is missing._  
Athos'  
  
When we will reach or if...?  
  
"Do you know what happened?" Tréville asked brusquely. Worry was weighing on his heart.  
  
"A little," François answered. "They came... three days ago. There were two of them, but one was wounded. They healthy one asked for medical help for his friend, so Madame Fouinette took care of the injured one. The healthy one went to search for his... the two others. He came back with one of them, who was severely wounded. He asked for someone to take this letter to Paris. And Madame Fouinette chose us."  
  
"Madame Fouinette is the village healer?"  
  
"Yes, sire."  
  
"And why did she choose your sister?"  
  
"She told us about the bandits whom the musketeers were battling. She thought that a couple would arouse less suspicion than a lone man."  
  
"She was right. Do you have anything to do in Paris?"  
  
"No, sire."  
  
"We will ride at dawn. You will show us the quickest way," declared Tréville.  
  
He then ordered Sabin to take care of the young couple.  
  
Left alone, Tréville read the letter over a few more times. He could read between the lines, and guessed that the situation was dire. His lieutenant was asking for help, and he suspected that Athos was devastated. He could only hope that if d'Artagnan was dead, either Aramis or Porthos would be well enough to save Athos from himself.  
  
The Captain reread the letter one more time. It seemed as if d'Artagnan had been kidnapped. He vaguely remembered Athos telling him that someone had tried to bribe the boy. He had gathered a few pieces of information about men who were not Red Guards who might be interested in his youngest musketeer, but the threat had not seemed very serious.  
  
Perhaps he had let himself be misled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank all who read and reviewed that sorry. Your comments make my day J
> 
> As always special thanks to Riversidewren.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis  
  
The warmth. He could feel the warmth slipping into him. He was utterly spent. If he was in a woman's bed, the night must have been really outstanding to leave him so exhausted.   
  
To be honest, he wished he could pretend he was with his lover.   
  
However, he could feel the pain and cold lingering in his body, waiting for the opportunity to attack him. He did not want to give in. He preferred just to lie still, breathing shallowly enough not to provoke them into action. He was tired of being hurt.  
  
The warmth. He focused on it. He felt safe, and that was a very rare feeling.   
  
The had never felt safe in any of his mistresses' beds. There, he needed to always be vigilant, always ready to escape. He could not remember a time he made love to a woman whose husband or lover would not try to kill him if he was discovered. Even brothels were dangerous, as the Musketeers' enemies knew exactly which establishments they favored.   
  
Aramis did not like to pay for love. For him, there was something that was just humiliating about it. Furthermore, in a brothel, he would not find a charming dinner--or brilliant conversation.   
  
Warmth. Safety. What more did he need?  
  
He could hear the steady heartbeat of his pillow. It felt good. He recognized it. Only Porthos would hold him in such a way. Such a tender way… it must mean that he was seriously wounded. Logically, he knew that this conclusion should make him more than a little anxious. But all he could feel was utter relief. Porthos was with him.  
  
Aramis allowed himself to relax, and sank into his brother's arms completely. That seemed to provoke some sort of a reaction. Perhaps Porthos was talking to him? Rather than actually hearing a voice, he more felt a rumbling sensation in his pillow, which must be Porthos' chest.  
  
A part of him knew he should answer, but the fatigue was overwhelming. Although suddenly, somethnig seemed to be very wrong. Was there a wave of despair in the voice which finally reached him? He was not sure. He even tried to say something, to ask a question - but he did not succeed. This should have worried him, but somehow – it did not.  
  
He could feel warm fingers on his neck, desperately searching for a pulse. And he knew they were shaking too much to clearly identify one.   
  
'Aramis!' He heard his name. Something hot and wet dripped onto his face.   
  
The marksman tried hard to make his body respond to the commands he was giving it. He so wanted to open his eyes or squeeze Porthos' hand. He simply wanted to give some sign of life, because he could feel the despair tearing his friend's heart apart. However, he was powerless to move.  
  
Was he dead? Was his soul trapped in his lifeless body? He should have panicked, but did not have enough energy. He felt completely calm. It was obvious now. He was calm because he was dead. After all, dead men are usually quiet.   
  
He felt so sorry for his friend. And at the same time, he just felt so safe being cradled in Porthos' arms. What had killed him? He struggled to remember, although he knew that this was probably a bad idea.   
  
_Christine! The shot._  
_The noose._  
 _The execution._  
 _D'Artagnan whipped._  
 _Allancourt._  
 _Marsac!_  
  
He had followed Marsac. That was why he had died. Suddenly, he could not bear Porthos' warmth--or his pain. It was all his fault.  
  
Now he was able to remember his last battle. He had wanted his brothers to be safe, but he had failed. D'Artagnan was dead, and Porthos was hurting. He did not want to think about how Athos had probably reacted to his protégé's death. He preferred not to imagine how bad it would have been.  
  
He sensed that he was lying on a bed. He was freezing, but he could still feel a warm hand on his cheek. And he could feel another hand, one significantly smaller, on his neck. A woman's hand. It seemed that there was also a woman's voice.   
  
He longed for the warmth. Had he been abandoned?! Had he been left in the snow to freeze? To die? No, he was already dead. This was probably hell. But if it was indeed hell, there should be fire and unbearable heat. Then he understood. This was a hell made especially for him. That is why it was so cold. He had hoped for peace, if not for paradise.

But now he was imprisoned forever in the winter forest of Savoy.  
  
He knew why he was being punished. He could remember the sadness in Porthos' eyes when he had bid him goodbye. His brother would not accept his sacrifice.   
  
He wanted so much to reassuringly pat Porthos' arm. He wanted to promise him that everything would be all right. He could feel a tear slowly trailing down his cheek, and suddenly felt a warm touch.  
  
"Aramis, please open your eyes! Please, live! Please… I… can't imagine life without you. I can't! I won't! You're my brother! You swore me to never to leave me! Do you remember?!"  
  
He did remember...  
  
_A castle cellar. The flame of a torch gave a bit of light in the darkness. He could discern a human form hanging in shackles. The sound of a whip. A knife cutting the air. One down.  
  
He turned just in time to meet another one with the blade of his sword. He feinted an attack, then made a lethal thrust. The lifeless body fell to the floor, and there was silence. Aramis rushed to the motionless prisoner.  
  
He whispered his friend's name over and over again as he desperately worked to free him. Suddenly, Porthos jerked, and Aramis stilled in response.  
  
"Porthos?" he asked softly._  
  
_Bloody fingers wrapped around his wrist._  
_  
"Don't leave!"_  
  
_"Never," he promised, holding his friend's injured hand between his own. He was as gentle as possible, trying to convey the message that he was there, and that he had no plans to leave._  
  
"Porthos…" A soft moan, rather than a word, escaped from his lips, but it was enough to have his friend cup his face. Finally, his body obeyed him, and he moved his head slightly, placing his cheek in his friend's palm.  
  
"Aramis… wake up, please!"  
  
He felt something cold and wet touch his lips. He took a tentative sip. Only then did he realize how thirsty he was. He drank greedily, and whimpered when the liquid disappeared. He was not even aware what it really tasted like. It was slightly thicker than simple water. All he knew was that he wanted more. Porthos did not have to coax him to drink.   
  
He could not believe that the simple act of drinking was so exhausting! The only thing he wanted now was to lie in his friend's arms. However, there was something important nagging at him--and it was too important to allow him to lie peacefully.   
  
"D'Artagnan?" he asked.  
  
He could feel a hand gently stroke his hair in response. Did that mean the boy was dead?!  
  
_"Please, help me Aramis!"_  
  
_D'Artagnan?_  
No…   
Marsac?  
  
Aramis suddenly knew he had to open his eyes, even though his eyelids felt unbelievably heavy. Finally, he managed to do so.  
  
And his reward? One of Porthos' genuine smiles.  
  
"D'Artagnan?" he repeated. His heart sank when the smile disappeared.  
  
"Bad," answered Porthos cautiously.  
  
"He needs your help." It was Athos, his voice hoarse. Aramis glanced at him and winced. His leader was so pale. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and a darker despair within them.  
  
"Forgive me..." he pleaded brokenly.  
  
"Aramis, we'll talk later. Just live!" replied Porthos fiercely.  
  
The Spaniard closed his eyes. He was so tired. But he had to save d'Artagnan. He could not just let the boy perish.   
  
"Tell me everything," he ordered weakly.  
  
"What should I tell you, Aramis?! That you tried to kill my dearest friend?! That is not so easy to forgive! You scared me! You tried to die on me! Yes, I am furious. I am angry with you. You reckless, stupid idiot!"  
  
Porthos' arm held his friend close to his broad chest, and his grip strengthened with every word.   
  
"I love you too," whispered Aramis.  
  
Porthos suddenly started to laugh like a madman. Aramis could feel the enormous relief, although he knew that they were not done with their conversation. He began to doze off when he heard Athos' voice.  
  
"Madame Louise is at a loss. I need… d'Artagnan needs... your help." The serious tone cut off the laugh and made Aramis open his eyes one more time. This time it was easier.  
  
"Tell me everything," he repeated in a barely audible whisper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Riversidewren for being an awesome beta. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Your comments make my day :))


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos  
  
He did not know how many hours had passed, but Aramis was barely breathing. Porthos still held him in his arms. From time to time, he tried to continue the one-side conversation with his brother, but he was finding it more and more difficult.   
  
D'Artagnan was lying near them. He was tossing restlessly in his sleep, tormented by fever-induced dreams. He curled up at Aramis' side, and seemed to be deaf to Athos' words and presence. At one moment, the boy actually buried his face in Aramis' hand. Its coldness must have given him relief, but the same coldness terrified Porthos. The musketeer did not have to glance at his leader to feel his despair. They were so close to losing both their brothers.   
  
Porthos could not imagine his life without Aramis. He did not even want to try. He could not lose him--and he understood very well that Athos could not lose d'Artagnan.   
  
It had been a great surprise for him to realize that the Gascon had become so important to Athos--the very same Athos that had taken months for Porthos and Aramis to gain his trust.  
  
They became really close a year after Savoy, when Aramis and Athos were captured and spent together two weeks in a makeshift prison. The peril of the situation was compounded by the fact that they both were wounded, Athos seriously. It had required all of Aramis' skill and knowledge to save his friend. Athos still could not believe that Aramis had stayed to care for him, refusing to take the few opportunities he had had to escape.   
  
_"Why did he not leave? He could have managed to escape!" A slightly delirious Athos kept repeating the same phrase over and over._  
  
_Each time, Porthos gave the same reply. "Because you are his brother, Athos." Utterly exhausted, Aramis had woken up from time to time to add a comment to their brilliant conversation.  
_  
Porthos needed now more than ever to hear the marksman's voice. He gently stroked his hair and sighed. He knew he should talk to his friend, but after so many hours, he seemed to have run out of things to say. All he could do was beg him to live.  
  
Suddenly the tension he was even not aware of left Aramis' body, and he sank deeper into Porthos' arms. He had held enough dying men in his arms to understand what that meant.  
  
"No! No! No! Aramis! Aramis!!" he shouted. He tried to find a pulse with his hand, which was shaking badly. He could not feel anything. So he had finally lost him. There was no Aramis anymore--only a cooling - no, already cold - body in his arms. He did not even try to fight against the tears falling down his cheeks.   
  
He felt Athos' hand on his arm, but he did not gain any comfort from his friend's touch. He buried his face in Aramis' neck, still mindful of his friend's wounds. Although Aramis was beyond any pain, Porthos could not force himself to look at Aramis' deathly pale face. There was no more hope--there was nothing left. And still, some part of Porthos was waiting for a miracle. After all, it had happened before.  
  
_Aramis' broken body was lying near the wall. Porthos had finally found him after three days and nine hours. He jumped at his friend, only to be paralyzed by the coldness of his skin. Only then did he realize how much blood was everywhere--his friend's blood. He gathered Aramis in his arms and braced himself to stand up and face the other musketeers. He knew what it would mean to acknowledge Aramis' death. And then he felt it--a soft breath. A cautious movement as Aramis secretly tried to assess his own condition.  
_  
Now he waited for the a similar miracle to occur.  
  
"Monsieur, put him down!" Louise ordered.  
  
Reluctantly he obeyed, not breaking contact with Aramis. The marksmen's face still had traces of pain and fatigue. It was so unjust! Porthos gently touched his face. He knew he would remember him like that, but he preferred to remember him alive, his eyes full of joy.   
  
No, he did not want to have to remember him!  
  
"Monsieur!" Louise voice cut through the blur of despair. She waited until he looked at her.  
  
"He is alive," she said with a small smile.  
  
Porthos stared at her, allowing her words to sink into his battered soul. Then hope stirred in his heart, and he could not hide his smile.  
  
"He may actually be close to regaining consciousness," she added.  
  
Porthos glanced hopefully at Aramis, then froze. A single tear trailed down his friend's cheek and disappeared into his hair. Was he in such pain?! Or... even worse - was this his silent farewell?!  
  
"Aramis!" he tried to coax him into awareness.  
  
He knew he was mumbling.  
  
'You swore to never leave me," he whispered, and memories flooded through him.  
  
_He did not know how long he had been there. There was no window--and even a window would not have helped, as he had been wounded, and had lost consciousness a few times.  
  
They were hunting a group of slave traders. From the very beginning, luck had not been with them. They had been ambushed. Porthos did not remember exactly how he had been captured. The last thing he remembered was the pain in his head. In fact, it still bothered him. However, it was really nothing in comparison to the rest of his body, which had been cut with the whip. He really could not_ _tell if he had any skin left on his back or his arms. The blood stuck to the wall against which he was shackled. There was no way for him to get any rest. He had to stand--or just hang--in a very uncomfortable, but not life-threatening position.  
_  
_They wanted to break him--to admit that he was born to be a slave, not a musketeer.  
_  
_First he had hoped that his brothers would find him. He saw their faces in his feverish dreams, and he could hear their voices. Each time, hope stirred in him when the doors opened, and each time it died under the whip. Each time, that hope was weaker._    
  
_So when he finally heard the gunshots, he could not believe in their promise. He would die there--abandoned. It did not matter if he was a slave or a musketeer-- being tortured to death erased any differences among men. He would be just another broken body left behind on the bandits' trail.  
_  
_Suddenly there was a gentle touch on his face, and a broken voice was calling his name. Aramis! Probably it was too late for him to be saved, but at least he would not die alone.  
_  
_But what if Aramis left him in a surgeon's hands and continued on his mission? He could feel the raw panic beginning to steal away his already labored breath. Ignoring the pain, he grasped his friend's hand with all the strength he had left.  
_  
_"Don't leave!" he begged._  
_"Never." A vow._  
  
Did Aramis remember it?  
  
A whisper. His name was being whispered. Porthos was overwhelmed with relief. He felt unchecked tears spill down his face, but he did not care. Aramis was with him. Aramis would live. He was certain of it.  
  
Louise handed him a cup and urged him to coax Aramis to drink. When he finished that cup, she handed him another one. His brother still did not open his eyes, but he was drinking, and the sound of protest he made when the first cup was emptied made Porthos' heart lighter.  
  
And finally, he was rewarded by the sight of those brown eyes looking at him.  
  
He was so happy to see that.   
Then he remembered why he might have lost his friend.   
  
He promised himself that he would not talk to Aramis about his suicide mission until his friend had regained some strength. After all, yelling at someone who was falling asleep mid-sentence did not make much sense. 

But as always, Aramis provoked him--and then disarmed him with his charm. Porthos wanted very much to be angry with him, but instead he was laughing, holding Aramis in his arms. The marksman was leaning into his touch, which made the very idea of being angry ridiculous--even if Porthos knew his brother was longing for any kind of warmth. But Porthos was ready to give the sharpshooter anything that he needed.  
  
The dark skinned musketeer felt a stab of guilt when Athos asked Aramis for help. He wanted to shield Aramis from anything which demanded any kind of effort from him. However, d'Artagnan's condition was worsening, and it was clear that Aramis would not deny any help he could provide. But could he really be of any help? Porthos saw how it was difficult for Aramis to keep his eyes open. He was struggling just to focus on Athos' words. Porthos felt the tension beginning to build again in his friend's body.  
  
"His fever is climbing, although the infection seems to be clearing. He seems… more distant." Athos finished his grave report about the condition of their youngest.  
  
Aramis closed his eyes, but Porthos knew he was still aware of his surroundings.  
  
"I would appreciate your advice, Monsieur," said Louise. Her words confirmed Athos' fear that she had no idea how to help d'Artagnan. Porthos could hear in her voice the great esteem in which she held Aramis' skills as a medic.   
  
"My guess – emotions." Aramis' voice was hardly audible, but he was evidently trying to convey as much as possible in a very few words. "Break the fever-- cold bath." The very idea made him shiver. In response, Porthos wrapped another blanket around Aramis, which provoked a small smile on the Spaniard's lips.  
  
"Must know--we're all good. Check my kit. Take everything useful." Aramis was barely conscious now. The short speech had drained him. However, it was obvious that he would do everything he could to save his brother.  
  
"Aramis! No!" An anguished cry was heard, the words so similar those spoken by Porthos earlier.  
  
D'Artagnan buried his face in Aramis' side, eliciting a moan of pain from the Spaniard. Porthos wanted to intervene, but the marksman shook his head slightly.  
  
"Help me," he murmured. Porthos watched him closely, waiting for further instructions. It took Aramis a few moments before he spoke once more.  
  
"Need to--touch his face. Convince him --I'm here."  
  
Athos nodded, and moved the boy into an appropriate position. Aramis touched d'Artagnan's face lightly with his fingers, then gently whispered his name. The Gascon calmed a bit under the soothing touch of Aramis, who remained silent. The marksman was just too tired to speak to the boy. Louise then announced that the bath was ready.  
  
Porthos sighed. He knew that Athos would need his help with d'Artagnan, but the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Aramis. When he gently laid his brother down, he was surprised by the strength with which the Spaniard squeezed his hand. There was a silent plea in that gesture.  
  
The dark skinned musketeer started to explain to Aramis what he was going to do. "I'll just help them, then be right back. We won't go even outside."  
  
Athos, overhearing him, shook his head. "Stay with him. We will manage with Madame taking care of d'Artagnan. I need you to watch our other lunatic," he ordered.  
  
Porthos cast him a look full of gratitude.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me quite long to post that chapter. I am afraid the next update also is not going to be a quick one. I hope it’s worth waiting.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and reviewing and special thanks to Riversidewren.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos POV

Athos  
  
He trusted Aramis more than the most skilled medics, despite the fact that many of them spent much more time treating people than his friend did. He knew he should not have burdened Aramis with the details of d'Artagnan's condition, but if the boy were to die, he would never forgive himself for failing to ask the Spaniard for help. Furthermore, Aramis would never forgive him.   
  
Athos was relieved that the sharpshooter had regained consciousness. His experience with battle injuries gave him some hope that Aramis might recover, and he clung to that hope desperately. However, it wavered every time he glanced at his friend. His paleness was frightening.   
  
He shook his head. He had to focus on his task. He gently submerged d'Artagnan in the cold bath. The boy whimpered softly, and Athos whispered a few words of encouragement.  
  
"Cold," mumbled the Gascon, searching for the only source of heat available to him--his mentor's hands.  
"D'Artagnan?" the older musketeer asked hopefully.  
"Mhm…" A murmur of protest.  
"Open your eyes for me!" ordered Athos.  
  
His tone of voice worked. A pair of brown eyes were suddenly staring at him.   
"T's, you're alive!" There was immense relief in his words.  
"Yes, I am. We are all alive." Athos remembered what Aramis had advised him to say.  
"Mis? He told me we wouldn't survive.." whispered d'Artagnan, leaning into his mentor's touch.  
"It was a bad dream--nothing more. You'll be alright." Athos forced himself to say the words with much more certainty than he felt.  
He lifted his protégé out of the water and wrapped him up in a towel. He then lay the boy down near his friends. He realized that Aramis was asleep, still using Porthos as his pillow. One of his hands was wound around the dark skinned musketeer's wrist.   
  
Athos settled down, shifting d'Artagnan into a comfortable position in his arms. Porthos glanced at them.  
  
"You're not asleep," Athos stated.  
"Not yet," replied Porthos. "I'll take care of them. Sleep."  
  
His leader did not answer. He needed sleep. He felt so tired, especially now that he had developed a fever. However, it was not high enough to really worry about. He was quite sure it was not the result of infection, but exhaustion.   
  
D'Artagnan seemed to feel somewhat cooler to the touch. Maybe the boy would actually recover?   
Maybe there was hope?   
Maybe they would return to Paris together?   
Perhaps they would find a way to make Allancourt answer for his deeds? Would there be more justice than vengeance?   
  
Aramis moaned in his sleep, a nightmare more than likely taking hold of him. Porthos started to soothe him. The Spaniard shifted, then buried his face in his brother's chest and calmed down. He must have whispered something, as Porthos assured him that he was right next to him.  
  
Louise was sitting at the table, dozing off while Claire prepared another portion of herbs in the mortar. Athos closed his eyes for a moment. He had every intention of opening them after a short period of time.  
  
_So this was it. Two fresh graves in the little village whose name he would remember until the end of his life. Ironically, he knew that time would not be far off now. Porthos was kneeling in the mud, crying openly. Athos could not find any words to comfort him. He knew that no such words existed.  
_  
_Aramis had died in order to save them. Why could the poor lunatic not have understood that he would never save their lives if it meant his death? With his death, their end would follow, and it would not be long. He could read it in Porthos' clenched hands. The big man was still whispering one word - "Mis"--but his plea went unheard.  
_  
_Athos somewhat envied his friend's ability to mourn so openly. He just felt cold. A part of his soul had died with the young Gascon. And now, there was so little feeling left. He felt empty and tired. He did not even have the will for vengeance._    
  
_He would kill Allancourt. It was his duty to his fallen brothers. However, it would not change anything. He had failed. He had failed completely.  
_  
_"Mis? He told me we wouldn't survive...." Those were d'Artagnan's last words. His voice had seemed so resigned and sad. The boy wanted to live. When did Aramis tell him such a thing? He somehow knew Aramis had said it. Then he remembered…  
_  
_Their wounds were still bleeding. Aramis was lying motionless near him, but he was too far away to touch him or check on him. They were shackled. He spoke to him, trying to rouse him with his voice. After a while, Aramis opened his eyes, and tried to get his bearings.  
_  
_"Aramis, how bad is it?" asked his leader.  
_  
_Aramis looked at him intently, then replied in a soft, sad voice, "We won't survive without even basic medical help. We will just bleed out."  
_  
_"Where's your optimism?" Athos scowled.  
"It's leaving me along with the blood," replied Aramis with a ghost of a smile.  
_  
_Athos closed his eyes. There would not be any optimism for him this time. There was no hope for him. His mind told him that Aramis' death would assure the safety of the Queen and the Dauphin. Then he realized that he would be the one to inform Anne about her loss. Perhaps his Queen would be merciful enough to sentence him to death for not saving her champion. He would gladly accept death.  
_  
_He wanted to cry, but there was enough emotion left in him. He was empty--and he was so cold. Now he fully understood how Aramis had felt after Savoy.  
_  
_He still could feel the trust which d'Artagnan had given to him so freely. The trust that he had betrayed. He had not even had the courage to admit to the Gascon that he was dying. He had not given his protégé the chance to make his last will and testament.  
_  
_He felt a hand on his arm. The only touch he would accept was Porthos', and the dark skinned musketeer was still kneeling a few steps in front of him. He could not stand any comfort or compassion. It was all his fault. He punched the person behind him._  
  
A painful cry shocked him awake. He could feel d'Artagnan's heartbeat under his hand. He buried his face in the boy's hair and softly said a few words of thanks. He did not know if he was thanking d'Artagnan or God. A soft moan caught his attention.   
  
Claire was lying on the floor, blood was dripping from her cut lip. He had hurt her! He had punched an innocent child, a child who had cared for them!  
  
"Mademoiselle, I am so sorry!" he whispered in horror, not wanting to wake Porthos.  
"It is alright. I just wanted to wake you from your bad dream, Monsieur," she replied hastily. "I should have been more cautious. It is my fault."  
  
"Your fault?!" He could not believe what she was saying.  
"Yes. I'll give you some herbs. You have got a fever," she said urgently.  
  
He had wounded a girl. A girl who had done her best to help them.  
  
He accepted the cup from her hands, then winced as he felt Louise's gaze.  
  
"What happened?" she asked.  
"I slipped on something," replied Claire quickly.  
  
"No, Madame. I hurt her," said Athos.  
"Why?" Louise sounded sleepy.  
  
"I woke up Monsieur Athos in the middle of a bad dream", her apprentice explained guiltily.  
"It was an accident," Louise commented. "Don't you dare feel guilty! I mean both of you!" She scowled at them.

Athos remained silent. Louise came over to check on her patients. She touched d'Artagnan's forehead, and smiled.  
"His fever has broken!" she exclaimed. Then she touched Athos' cheek and frowned. "And yours – has not."  
  
The herbwoman handed him a cup.  
"Drink it. Then you should sleep. I'll take care of you and your men," she declared.  
Athos drank. He recognized the taste of the herbs Aramis mixed if he wanted his patients to sleep peacefully.   
  
Louise moved on to check on Aramis.  
"I'll change his bandages in the morning. I prefer not to wake him now. He needs sleep," she said.  
"Will he recover?" Athos asked, his voice tense.  
She smiled gently. "Barring infection and stupid ideas? He should."  
"And D'Artagnan?"  
"He has a good chance," she replied. "Sleep. I'll wake you if your friends need you."  
  
"Athos?" Aramis opened one eye.  
His leader immediately felt guilty that his conversation with Louise had disturbed the Spaniard's sleep.  
"Yes, Aramis?"  
"Sleep. I don't want to have to take care of you. I'm too tired." There was so much defeat in the marksman's voice. Athos felt a sting of panic.  
  
"Aramis?!" he whispered.  
"Sleep.." he repeated.  
  
Athos gave him a slight nod.  
"Do you promise me?" asked Aramis.  
"I promise," Athos replied simply, then closed his eyes. He was immediately asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My special thanks as always to Riversidewren.  
> I am sorry they are healing a little, it will change... *wolfish grin*


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

Tréville

They rode hard. The memory of fresh graves would not allow Tréville to slow down, although he knew it had just been a nightmare.   
It was nothing more, but it was just too much.   
  
Maybe it was because he usually did not remember his dreams. He was accustomed to waking up emotionally drained, but without any image imprinted on his mind. This time, it was different.   
  
It was late afternoon when they eventually reached Epi –sur-Esonne.   
  
He could feel the anxiety of the inhabitants when they entered the village. Most people tried not to stare too openly at him and his men. However, there was a middle aged woman who gazed at him intently. She had a bucket of water in her hand, which she placed on the ground. Then she waited.   
  
"That is Madame Fouinette," explained François as they rode up to her.  
Tréville reined in his horse, then dismounted in front of the woman.  
  
"How many wounded do you have, Monsieur?", she asked. Her gaze slipped over his men, sizing them up.  
  
"Luckily, none, Madame. The road here was safe. I understand that you have taken care of… my men who arrived here some time ago. Could you please inform me of their condition?" He had to sternly remind himself that he was not talking to Aramis or any other army's medic. He was not supposed to order this woman to give him a report.  
  
"Of course. Could you please give me your name? I would like to be sure of the identity of anyone with whom I speak about my patients," she replied coldly.   
  
Her attitude spoke volumes about the events here. They must have been attacked after arriving at the village.  
  
"I am Captain Tréville, their commanding officer." He forced himself to be patient, although he desperately needed the information now.  
  
She nodded, finally satisfied. She met his gaze before she started to speak, and he braced himself for the bad news. She did not give him the impression that everything was fine.  
  
"They are alive”, she replied simply. "They are asleep now. Monsieur Porthos is on the road to recovery, although his head is still bothering him. He needs more rest and much less stress."  
  
He asked himself how much she was holding back from him. Less stress? That meant Aramis was probably in bad shape. He calmed his racing thoughts, and forced himself to stand and listen to the healer, rather than storming into the house.   
  
His men, nerves on edge, stood in a half circle and waited. Those musketeers who were with him liked and respected the Inseparables very much. They could not hear his conversation with Madame Fouinette, so they were judging the situation from his reactions. He knew that some of them were quite skilled in reading him, especially at a time like this. He was not shielding his emotions with a neutral, professional expression. He sensed that the herbwoman cared for her patients. If his attitude seemed too cold, gaining her trust would be impossible.  
  
"Monsieur Athos", she continued, "is quite ill. His wounds have a minor infection, but the main problem is that he has given every bit of his strength to the others. He is utterly exhausted. However, if you can convince him to rest, he should be as good as new in a few days."  
  
So, evidently she had started with the two that were in the best health. He braced himself for the rest of her report. He saw the fatigue in her eyes, and could hear it in her voice. Things must have been very difficult here.  
  
"Monsieur Aramis has lost a lot of blood. First he was beaten, then shot. As he did regain consciousness, I daresay he will live--but only if he does not want to sacrifice himself again. The guilt is literally killing him. I don't know what your relationship is with him, but I hope you are able and willing to help him. As to the boy--sorry, as far as Monsieur d'Artagnan is concerned…"  
  
Tréville could not restrain himself from smiling when he heard her call his youngest musketeer a boy. She could have been his mother, he thought.   
  
"His wounds were badly infected. However, as his fever finally broke last night, he may recover. As for the woman, she is dead," she finished.

"Which woman? Who?!"  
  
"Monsieur Athos found her in the same place where he found Aramis. She was shot dead. If you ask me, it was done as a kind of punishment."  
  
"Did Aramis witness it?"  
"Yes."  
  
That explained a few things--especially Aramis' guilt.  
"Were you attacked here in the village?"  
"No, the bandits only came here to make some inquires about your men. Then monsieur Aramis sneaked out to kill them, planning to die himself in the process!" She sounded really furious.   
  
He could not blame her for feeling that way. He felt immense gratitude towards her. He was wondering what he could do to thank her when the door opened, revealing a somewhat disheveled, and obviously tired, Porthos. There was much more pain in his eyes than Tréville wanted to see.  
  
"Captain!" The dark skinned musketeer greeted him with a smile. His relief was palpable.  
"How are they?"   
"Sleeping," replied Porthos.  
  
Tréville did not like the haunted look in his man's eyes. Whatever happened here had taken a heavy toll on Porthos--and Porthos usually was the one who recovered the quickest from any emotional damage.   
  
"They need it, captain," he admitted uneasily.  
"You look like you need some more sleep also. Is there a high likelihood of an attack?"  
  
"No. Aramis finished off the bandits. Of course, when Allancourt finds out, he will send more men. He wants very badly to capture Aramis and d'Artagnan. Our guess is that he wants to get revenge on Aramis. As for d'Artagnan, it may be a question of blackmail--or perhaps Allancourt hopes to gain some information from him."  
  
"Allancourt? I can understand why he may be furious at Aramis, but we need to know exactly why he wants d'Artagnan… "  
  
"Do you know him well, sir?"  
"No, I have only seen him twice at the palace. He looks like an ordinary nobleman. I want you all well enough to return to Paris. But before that, I need to speak with all of you."  
Porthos only nodded.   
  
"How is Aramis?" Tréville asked, his voice gentle.  
"Bad."  
"I am not asking about his physical health."  
"Bad. He wanted to sacrifice himself for us. He is acting… just like he did after Savoy."  


That meant worse than bad.   
  
The first drops of rain began to fall. "May I come in?" asked Tréville politely.  
Louise invited him in with a friendly gesture.   
  
There was a thick smell of blood in the room. The captain gazed at his men. They were curled up together on the big bed. He knew that they were seeking each other's physical presence in order to rebuild their feeling of safety. However, when he saw how pale Athos' face was, he doubted that it was possible.  
  
Porthos returned to his place near Aramis. The marksman immediately leaned towards his friend. Tréville did not like the color of the sharpshooter's face. He had indeed lost a lot of blood. Such a large amount could have killed him.   
  
"You saved them, Madame," he said gratefully to Louise.  
She shook her head.  
"No. They saved themselves. Their dedication to each other is amazing." She smiled. "I have never seen anything like it. You have slightly insane-- but great--men, Monsieur."  
  
He smiled in reply, and made sure that Porthos saw that his smile was genuine, full of pride in his men.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Riversidewren for betaing.   
> I hope you’ll enjoy it.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis POV

Aramis  
  
They finished their report. Their captain had allowed them to speak freely, and had not even interrupted them to ask any questions.   
  
Tréville had arrived three days earlier, but he had waited for his men to regain enough strength to give a full report.   
  
"I will talk to the king, but I do not think that we can achieve anything without proof. I am sorry, Aramis, but we have already tested how much a musketeer's word is worth against a nobleman's, and have unfortunately found that it carries less weight," the captain concluded. Silence reigned in the little house which had been their shelter for so many difficult days now.  
  
Aramis could not find enough strength to argue. He was more than ready to agree that Allancourt was not the one to blame for Christine's death. After all, it was all his fault.   
  
"Allancourt may strike again when he realizes that Aramis and d'Artagnan are alive," said Porthos after a while.  
"To be honest, I am counting on that. If he makes a move, that will give us some evidence," replied Tréville.  
"So, we are the bait." D'Artagnan smiled.   
  
The boy was still very weak, and his wounds continued to bother him, but Aramis was certain they would heal. And more importantly, the medic felt that his little brother was calm. It was not the best word ever used to describe the young Gascon, but Aramis sensed that the whole ordeal had not done any lasting emotional damage to his friend--and this was a huge relief to him.  
  
"No! I can't agree to that plan." Athos shook his head.  
The boy caught his hand and smiled, using his best puppy dog eyes on his mentor. As always, it worked.  
"Fine," grumbled Athos. "But first, you have to recover. And until that happens, you will be under guard." Athos glanced at Tréville with a silent plea in his eyes.  
  
"That sounds reasonable. In this situation, it would be a good idea for you to spend some more time here. I would like to take you home as soon as possible, but you need to be able to ride. After all these rains, no cart is going to make it to the better roads."  
  
Aramis saw that the Captain was waiting for their response.   
"It would be safer to stay," agreed Athos.   
Porthos only sighed. He missed Paris.   
  
"As long as you give me something more like real food! I am quite tired of broth," declared d'Artagnan.  
Porthos immediately went to fetch the bread and cheese which Claire had left in the kitchen for them. There was also a large basket of apples and a smaller basket of berries.  
  
Aramis already knew what was going to happen. But d'Artagnan looked bewildered when an apple landed on his lap. Usually Aramis would mercilessly tease the boy, but he found that he just had no energy for mischief. He also discovered that he could not make his lips form a smile. His mind told him that he could not blame his injuries for this. However, Aramis chose to ignore it as he closed his eyes.  
  
"Aramis! I need you to eat before you fall asleep!" Porthos' slightly unsettled voice prompted him to open his eyes. He considered refusing, but when he felt his captain's gaze on him, he knew that any protest would be cut short by a direct order. So, he abandoned any thought of argument, and merely accepted a plate. He was not hungry. but he did not want to worry his brothers or to draw any more attention to his condition. So he ate, then pretended to fall asleep.   
  
His friends sat in companionable silence. Aramis guessed that d'Artagnan had quickly fallen asleep. Athos, Porthos, and the Captain were speaking in low voices. Then Tréville ordered his lieutenant to rest, and withdrew to the house he occupied with his other men. There were regular patrols outside the village now. The strange thing was that no bodies of the dead mercenaries could be found. The only possible explanation was that someone had survived and had given his comrades a proper burial. However, there was no sign of any fresh graves in the proximity of the village.  
  
Aramis waited until everyone was asleep. He had tried to fall asleep also, but unfortunately his body did not want to take the opportunity to rest. His mind conjured up images from his memories and feverish dreams. The images were so fragmented and mixed up that they were difficult to understand. He felt like he was suffocating in this little closed space.   
  
He checked to make sure that everyone was asleep, then gently untangled himself from Porthos. He managed somehow to get himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He felt a little dizzy, and patiently waited for his vision to clear. Then he stood up, leaning heavily on the wall for support. His body was not being very cooperative. He was so cold, but at the same time, he needed to get out of the house. He did not deserve his friends' warmth. He was in such a desperate hurry to leave that he did not bother with putting on his boots or his coat.   
  
He slipped out quietly out of the house. It was raining, and the night was very cold. He headed towards the cemetery. It seemed so far, and he cursed his own weakness. He searched for the support of a tree, then a wall, then another tree. Finally, he reached the small wall surrounding the cemetery, and saw a fresh grave. It was too dark to read the letters carved on the wooden cross. He could only hope it was Christine's grave. He fell on his knees, unable to stand any longer. He tried to pray, but no words came to his mind. The grace of prayer was being denied to him. Shivers tormented his body, intensifying the pain from his wounds. His brothers would hate him for his nocturnal escapade. His brothers? No… he was not worthy of calling them brothers. He was nothing but a threat to them.   
  
He could not remain upright any longer. He collapsed in the muddy grave, his face in the dirt. Shivers and sobs wracked his body.  
  
"ARAMIS?!!!" A panicked voice. Hands seized his arms, lifting him up. He winced as they touched his wound.  
  
"How could you be so foolish?!" Porthos scolded him, wrapping his shivering body into a cloak or a blanket.  
"Get out of here, Porthos! I should be left alone… I am a menace, don't you see?" Aramis whispered. However, he did not try to fight his brother. Instead, he leaned into his embrace.  
  
"What are you talking about?!" Porthos asked. "About women? Christine's death is not your fault!"  
"You don't understand! I slept with the Queen. You will all hang for my treason!"  
  
He could feel Porthos stiffen. Aramis braced himself, preparing for the rejection. No, that was a lie. He would be never prepared for that crushing blow.   
  
"I suspected as much," murmured Porthos, "You should have told us earlier. We are your brothers, don't you remember?"  
  
"No… I wanted you to be safe…"  
"Oh, yes! That makes sense! After all, being a musketeer is such a safe job!" snorted a sarcastic Porthos, "Oh.. Aramis… "  
"I will leave. I cannot…."  
  
"Shut up!!! I will not let you leave us. I need you....we need you! Do you know how many times each of us would be dead if it were not for your help?! You cannot just resign from your commission, from your way of life! I can only guess how much your nightmares torture you. But it does not change the fact that we need you, we love you, and we respect you. I will not allow you to forget it! I don't care WHO you slept with, as long as you live! Do you understand me?!!!" Porthos shook Aramis. The marksman groaned and closed his eyes fighting against the pain.   
  
Porthos gently took Aramis into his arms.   
"You're cold. We will go back to the house. And don't pretend to be sleep when you're not!"  
"How did you know?"  
"You were too still to be asleep. I knew that you were either unconscious or pretending. I am just glad you were only pretending."   
Aramis nodded, burying his face against Porthos' broad chest.   
  
"Cold," he mumbled  
"It's autumn. It just so happens that autumn nights are usually cold," replied Porthos with a smile. Wrapping his arms around Aramis, he took him back to the house.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of my first fanfic ever. And I feel really strange with this.
> 
> Special thanks to Riversidewren for her patience as Beta. I would like to thank all readers, reviewers and followers. It mean a lot for me.
> 
> There will be a sequel. Allancourt is still alive and free to do what he wants. I hope to start to post it in May.
> 
> If you want any of the memories mentioned in Fear of tomorrow to become a story, please tell me. I won’t promise it but I’ll try. Legoelf, I do remember


End file.
